FOREST   NEIGHBORS 


"  And  the  Northern  Lights  come  down, 
To  dance  with  the  houseless  snow  ,• 
And  God,  Who  clears  the  grounding  berg, 

And  steers  the  grinding  Jloe, 
He  hears  the  cry  of  the  little  kit-fox, 
And  the  lemming,  on  the  snow." 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


The  Beaver  Lumbering. 


FOREST    NEIGHBORS 


LIFE  STORIES  OF  WILD  ANIMALS 


BY 


WILLIAM    DAVENPORT    HULBERT 


ILLUSTRATED 


DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  CO. 

GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1900,  1901,  AND  1902,  BY 
THE  S.  S.  McCLURE  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  CO. 


' 


To  my  Sister 
KATHARINE   GRACE   HULBERT 


397588 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION xi 

THE  BIOGRAPHY  OF  A  BEAVER 1 

THE  KING  OF  THE  TROUT  STREAM 41 

THE  STRENUOUS  LIFE  OF  A  CANADA  LYNX     ...  83 

POINTERS  FROM  A  PORCUPINE  QUILL 125 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  LOON 163 

THE  MAKING  OF  A  GLJMMERGLASS  BUCK    .     .     .     .199 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
The  Beaver  Lumbering Frontispiece 

PAGE 

"  On    the    grass    in    the    warm,    quiet    sunshine    of  an 

autumn  afternoon" 6 

Building  the  Dam 22 

Nesting  Grounds  62 

"  He  tried  jumping  out  of  the  water  " 72 

"  The  hole  was  suddenly  darkened,  and  a  round, 

hairy  face  looked  in" 100 

"He  was  a  very  presentable  young  lynx"  .  .  .  .110 
"They  both  stood  still  and  looked  at  each  other"  .  120 
"High  up  in  the  top  of  a  tall  hemlock"  .  .  .  .132 
"He  quickly  made  his  way  to  the  beach"  ...  148 
"He  went  under  as  simply  as  you  would  step  out  of 

bed" 166 

"She  herself  was  a  rarely  beautiful  sight"  .  .  .  .170 
"The  old  earth  sliding  southward  fifty  miles  an  hour"  180 

"He  was  a  baby  to  be  proud  of" 202 

"  The  buck  was  nearing  the  prime  of  life  "  ...  226 
"Wherever  they  went  they  were  always  struggling 

and  fighting" 230 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 


thirty  years  ago,  while  out  on  one  of  his  landlook- 
ing  trips  in  the  woods  of  Northern  Michigan,  my  father 
came  upon  a  little  lake  which  seemed  to  him  the  loveliest 
that  he  had  ever  seen,  though  he  had  visited  many  in  the 
course  of  his  explorations.  The  wild  ponds  are  very  apt 
to  be  shallow  and  muddy,  with  low,  marshy  shores;  but 
this  one  was  deep  and  clear,  and  its  high  banks  were 
clothed  with  a  splendid  growth  of  beech,  maple  and 
birch.  Tall  elms  stood  guard  along  the  water's  edge, 
and  here  and  there  the  hardwood  forest  was  broken  by 
dark  hemlock  groves,  and  groups  of  lordly  pine-trees, 
lifting  their  great  green  heads  high  above  their  deciduous 
neighbors.  Only  m  one  place,  around  the  extreme  eastern 
end,  the  ground  wasjlat  and  wet;  and  there  the  tamarack 
swamp  showed  golden  yellow  in  October,  and  light,  delicate 
green  in  late  spring.  Wild  morning-glories  grew  on  the 
grassy  point  that  put  out  from  the  northern  shore,  and  in 
the  bays  the  white  water-lilies  were  blossoming.  Nearly  two 
miles  long  and  three-quarters  of  a  mile  wide,  it  lay  bask- 

[xiii] 


Introduction 

ing  and  shimmering  in  the  sunshine,  a  big,  broad,  beautiful 
sheet  of  water  set  down  in  the  very  heart  of  the  woods. 

There  were  no  settlers  anywhere  near,  nor  even  any 
Indians,  yet  there  was  no  lack  of  inhabitants.  Bears  and 
wolves  and  a  host  of  smaller  animals  were  to  be  found,  and 
along  the  shores  were  runways  that  had  been  worn  deep 
in  the  soil  by  the  tread  of  generation  after  generation  of 
dainty  little  cloven  hoofs.  I  suppose  that  some  of  those 
paths  have  been  used  by  the  deer  for  hundreds,  and  per- 
haps thousands,  of  years. 

The  lands  around  the  entire  lake  were  offered  for  sale 
by  the  United  States  Government  at  the  ridiculously  low 
price  which  Uncle  Sam  has  asked  for  most  of  his  posses- 
sions ;  and  with  the  help  of  some  friends  my  father  bought 
the  whole  shore.  During  the  years  which  followed  he  was 
occupied  in  various  ways,  and  some  of  the  best  recollections 
of  my  boyhood  are  of  the  days  and  the  nights  which  I  spent 
with  him  on  his  fahing-tug,  steaming  about  the  Straits  of 
Mackinac  and  the  northern  part  of  Lake  Huron.  But  he 
could  not  forget  the  Glimmerglass,  that  little  wild  lake  up 
in  the  woods.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  it  at  first  sight, 
and  at  last  he  took  his  family  and  went  there  to  live. 

Human   neighbors   were   scarce   around   the  lake,  and 
[xiv] 


Introduction 

perhaps  that  was  one  reason  why  we  took  such  a  lively 
interest  in  the  other  residents — those  who  were  there  ahead 
of  us.  " Him  and  me's  chums"  my  small  sister  said  of 
the  red-squirrel  that  hung  around  the  log-barn.  And  some 
of  the  animals  seemed  to  take  a  very  lively  interest  in  us. 
The  chipmunks  came  into  the  house  occasionally,  on  forag- 
ing expeditions ;  and  so,  I  regret  to  say,  did  the  skunks. 
There  was  a  woodchuck  who  used  to  come  to  the  back  door, 
looking  for  scraps,  and  who  learned  to  sit  bolt  upright 
and  hold  a  pancake  in  his  fore  paws  while  he  nibbled  at  it, 
without  being  in  the  least  disturbed  by  the  presence  and  the 
comments  of  half  a  dozen  spectators.  The  porcupines 
became  a  never-ending  nuisance,  for  they  made  almost 
nightly  visits  to  the  woodshed.  To  kill  them  was  of  little 
use,  for  the  next  night — or  perhaps  before  morning — there 
were  others  to  take  their  places.  Once  in  a  while  one  of 
them  would  climb  up  onto  the  roof  of  the  house ;  and 
between  his  teeth  and  his  feet  and  the  rattling  of  his  quills 
on  the  shingles,  the  racket  that  he  made  was  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  his  size. 

It  is  sweet  to  lie  at  evening  in  your  little  trundle-bed, 
And  to  listen  to  a  porky  gnawing  shingles  overhead ; 

Porky,  porky,  porky,  porky ; 

Gnawing  shingles  overhead, 
[xv] 


Introduction 

The  wolves  had  been  pretty  nearly  exterminated  since  my 
father's  first  visit  to  the  lake,  and  we  saw  little  or  nothing 
of  them.  The  bears  seemed  to  be  more  numerous,  but  they 
were  very  shy  and  retiring.  We  found  their  tracks  more 
often  than  we  came  upon  the  animals  themselves.  Some  of 
the  cat  tribe  remained,  and  occasionally  placed  themselves  in 
evidence.  My  brother  came  in  one  day  from  a  long  tramp 
on  snow-shoes,  and  told  how  he  had  met  one  of  them  stand- 
ing guard  over  the  remains  of  a  deer,  and  how  the  lynx 
had  held  him  up  and  made  him  go  around.  Beavers  were 
getting  scarce,  though  a  few  were  still  left  on  the  more 
secluded  streams.  Deer,  on  the  contrary,  were  very  plenti- 
ful. Many  a  time  they  invaded  our  garden-patch  and 
helped  themselves  to  our  fresh  vegetables. 

One  August  afternoon  a  flock  of  eight  young  partridges, 
of  that  springs  hatching,  coolly  marched  out  of  the  woods 
and  into  the  clearing,  as  if  they  were  bent  on  investigating 
their  new  neighbors.  Partridges  appear  to  be  subject  to 
occasional  Jits  of  stupidity,  and  to  temporary  (or  possibly 
permanent)  loss  of  common-sense ;  but  it  may  be  that  in 
this  case  the  birds  were  too  young  and  inexperienced  to  real- 
ize what  they  were  doing.  Or  perhaps  they  knew  that  it 
was  Sunday,  and  that  the  rules  of  the  household  forbade 

[xvi] 


Introduction 

shooting  on  that  day.  If  so,  their  confidence  was  sadly 
misplaced.  We  didn't  shoot  them,  but  we  did  surround 
them,  and  by  working  carefully  and  cautiously  we 
"shooed"  them  into  an  empty  log-house.  And  the  next 
day  we  had  them  for  dinner. 

Around  the  shores  of  the  Glimmerglass  a  few  loons  and 
wild-ducks  usually  nested,  and  in  the  autumn  the  large 
jlocks  from  the  Far  North  often  stopped  there  for  short 
visits,  on  their  way  south  for  the  winter.  They  were  more 
sociable  than  you  would  suppose — or  at  least  the  loons  were 
— and  the  same  small  girl  who  had  made  friends  with  the 
red-squirrel  learned  to  talk  to  the  big  birds. 

Down  m  the  water  the  herring  and  a  large  species  of 
salmon  trout  made  their  homes,  and  probably  enjoyed  them- 
selves till  they  met  with  the  gill-net  and  the  trolling-hook. 
But  herring  and  salmon  trout  did  not  satisfy  us;  we 
wanted  brook  trout,  too.  And  so  one  day  a  shipment  of 
babies  arrived  from  the  hatchery  at  Sault  Ste.  Marie,  and 
thus  we  Jirst  became  acquainted  with  the  habits  of  infant 
Jishes,  and  learned  something  of  their  needs  and  the  methods 
of  their  foster-parents. 

One  after  another  our  neighbors  introduced  themselves, 
each  m  his  own  way.  And  they  were  good  neighbors,  all 

[xvii] 


Introduction 

of  them.  Even  the  porcupines  and  the  skunks  were  inter- 
esting— in  their  peculiar  fashion — and  I  wish  there  were 
none  worse  than  they  in  the  city's  slums. 

I  have  said  good-by  to  the  Glimmerglass,  and  it  may  be 
that  I  shall  never  again  make  my  home  by  its  shores.  But 
the  life  of  the  woods  goes  on,  and  will  still  go  on  as  long 
as  man  will  let  it.  I  suppose  that9  even  as  I  write,  the 
bears  are  "  holeing  up "  for  the  winter,  and  the  deer  are 
growing  anxious  because  the  snow  is  covering  the  best  of 
their  food,  and  they  of  the  cat  tribe  are  getting  down  to 
business,  and  hunting  in  deadly  earnest.  The  loons  and 
the  ducks  have  pulled  out  for  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  the 
squirrels  are  glad  that  they  have  such  a  goodly  store  of 
nuts  laid  up  for  the  next  four  months.  The  beavers  have 
retired  to  their  lodges — that  is,  if  Charley  Roop  and  his 
fellows  have  left  any  of  them  alive.  The  partridges — well, 
the  partridges  will  just  have  to  get  along  the  best  way  they 
can.  I  guess  they'll  pull  through  somehow.  The  porcu- 
pines are  all  right,  as  you  will  presently  see  if  you  read  this 
book.  They  don't  have  to  worry.  Down  in  the  bed  of  the 
trout  stream  the  trout  eggs  are  getting  ready — getting 
ready.  And  out  on  the  lake  itself  the  frost  is  at  work, 
and  the  ice-sheet  is  forming,  and  under  that  cold,  white  lid 

[xviii] 


Introduction 

the  Glimmerglass  Witt  wait  till  another  year  brings  round 
another  spring-time — the  spring-time  that  will  surely  come 
to  all  of  its  if  only  we  hold  on  long  enough. 

Chicago,  December,  1901. 


[xix] 


THE  BIOGRAPHY  OF  A  BEAVER 


THE   BIOGRAPHY   OF  A  BEAVER 

A.  BROAD,  flat  tail  came  down  on  the  water  with  a 
whack  that  sent  the  echoes  flying  back  and  forth  across 
the  pond,  and  its  owner  ducked  his  head,  arched  his  back, 
and  dived  to  the  bottom.  It  was  a  very  curious  tail,  for 
besides  being  so  oddly  paddle-shaped  it  was  covered  with 
what  looked  like  scales,  but  were  really  sections  and  in- 
dentations of  hard,  horny,  blackish-gray  skin.  Except  its 
owner's  relations,  there  was  no  one  else  in  all  the  animal 
kingdom  who  had  one  like  it.  But  the  strangest  thing 
about  it  was  the  many  different  ways  in  which  he  used  it. 
Just  now  it  was  his  rudder — and  a  very  good  rudder,  too. 
In  a  moment  his  little  brown  head  reappeared,  and  he 
and  his  brothers  and  sisters  went  chasing  each  other 
round  and  round  the  pond,  ducking  and  diving  and 
splashing,  raising  such  a  commotion  that  they  sent  the 
ripples  washing  all  along  the  grassy  shores,  and  having 
the  j  oiliest  kind  of  a  time.  It  isn't  the  usual  thing  for 
young  beavers  to  be  out  in  broad  daylight,  but  all  this 
happened  in  the  good  old  days  before  the  railways  came, 

[3] 


Forest  Neighbors 
when  northern  Michigan  was  less  infested  with  men  than 

it  is  now. 

/ 

When  the  youngsters  wanted  a  change  they  climbed  up 
onto  a  log,  and  nudged  and  hunched  each  other,  poking 
their  noses  into  one  another's  fat  little  sides,  and  each 
trying  to  shove  his  brother  or  sister  back  into  the  water. 
By  and  by  they  scrambled  out  on  the  bank,  and  then,  when 
their  fur  had  dripped  a  little,  they  set  to  work  to  comb 
it.  Up  they  sat  on  their  hind  legs  and  tails — the  tail 
was  a  stool  now,  you  see — and  scratched  their  heads  and 
shoulders  with  the  long  brown  claws  of  their  small,  black, 
hairy  hands.  Then  the  hind  feet  came  up  one  at  a  time, 
and  combed  and  stroked  their  sides  till  the  moisture  was 
gone  and  the  fur  was  soft  and  smooth  and  glossy  as 
velvet.  After  that  they  had  to  have  another  romp. 
They  were  not  half  as  graceful  on  land  as  they  had  been 
in  the  water.  In  fact  they  were  not  graceful  at  all,  and 
the  way  they  stood  around  on  their  hind  legs,  and  shuf- 
fled, and  pranced,  and  wheeled  like  baby  hippopotami, 
and  slapped  the  ground  with  their  tails,  was  one  of  the 
funniest  sights  in  the  heart  of  the  woods.  And  the  fun- 
niest and  liveliest  of  them  all  was  the  one  who  owned  that 
tail — the  tail  which,  when  I  last  saw  it,  was  lying  on 

[4] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

the  ground  in  front  of  Charlie  Hoop's  shack.     He  was 
the  one  whom  I  shall  call  the  Beaver — with  a  big  B. 

But  even  young  beavers  will  sometimes  grow  tired  of 
play,  and  at  last  they  all  lay  down  on  the  grass  in  the 
warm,  quiet  sunshine  of  the  autumn  afternoon.  The 
wind  had  gone  to  sleep,  the  pond  glittered  like  steel  in 
its  bed  of  grassy  beaver-meadow,  the  friendly  woods  stood 
guard  all  around,  the  enemy  was  far  away,  and  it  was  a 
very  good  time  for  five  furry  little  babies  to  take  a  nap. 

The  city  in  which  the  tail  first  made  its  appearance  was 
a  very  ancient  one,  and  may  have  been  the  oldest  town  on 
the  North  American  continent.  Nobody  knows  when 
the  first  stick  was  laid  in  the  dam  that  changed  a  small 
natural  pond  into  a  large  artificial  one,  and  thus  opened 
the  way  for  further  municipal  improvements ;  but  it  was 
probably  centuries  ago,  and  for  all  we  can  tell  it  may 
have  been  thousands  of  years  back  in  the  past.  Genera- 
tion after  generation  of  beavers  had  worked  on  that  dam, 
building  it  a  little  higher  and  a  little  higher,  a  little 
longer  and  a  little  longer,  year  after  year ;  and  raising 
their  lodges  as  the  pond  rose  around  them.  Theirs  was 
a  maritime  city,  for  most  of  its  streets  were  of  water,  like 
those  of  Venice ;  rich  cargoes  of  food-stuffs  came  floating 

[6] 


Forest  Neighbors 

to  its  very  doors,  and  they  themselves  were  navigators 
from  their  earliest  youth,  and  took  to  the  water  as  natu- 
rally as  ducks  or  Englishmen.  They  were  lumbermen, 
too,  and  when  the  timber  was  all  cut  from  along  the 
shores  of  the  pond  they  dug  canals  across  the  low,  level, 
marshy  ground,  back  to  the  higher  land  where  the  birch 
and  the  poplar  still  grew,  and  floated  the  branches  and 
the  smaller  logs  down  the  artificial  water-ways.  And 
there  were  land  roads,  as  well  as  canals,  for  here  and 
there  narrow  trails  crossed  the  swamp,  showing  where 
generations  of  busy  workers  had  passed  back  and  forth 
between  the  felled  tree  and  the  water's  edge.  Streets, 
canals,  public  works,  dwellings,  commerce,  lumbering, 
rich  stores  laid  up  for  the  winter — what  more  do  you 
want  to  constitute  a  city,  even  if  the  houses  are  few  in 
number,  and  the  population  somewhat  smaller  than  that 
of  London  or  New  York  ? 

There  was  a  time,  not  very  long  before  the  Beaver  was 
born,  when  for  a  few  years  the  city  was  deserted.  The 
trappers  had  swept  through  the  country,  and  the  citizens1 
skulls  had  been  hung  up  on  the  bushes,  while  their  skins 
went  to  the  great  London  fur  market.  Few  were  left  alive, 
and  those  few  were  driven  from  their  homes  and  scattered 

[6] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

through  the  woods.  The  trappers  decided  that  the  ground 
was  worked  out,  and  most  of  them  pushed  on  to  the  north 
and  west  in  search  of  regions  not  yet  depopulated.  Then, 
one  by  one,  the  beavers  came  back  to  their  old  haunts. 
The  broken  dam  was  repaired ;  new  lodges  were  built,  and 
new  beavers  born  in  them ;  and  again  the  ancient  town  was 
alive  with  the  play  of  the  babies  and  the  labors  of  the  civil 
engineers.  Not  as  populous,  perhaps,  as  it  had  once  been, 
but  alive,  and  busy,  and  happy.  And  so  it  was  when  our 
Beaver  came  into  the  world. 

The  first  year  of  his  life  was  an  easy  one,  especially  the 
winter,  when  there  was  little  for  anyone  to  do  except  to 
eat,  to  sleep,  and  now  and  then  to  fish  for  the  roots  of  the 
yellow  water-lily  in  the  soft  mud  at  the  bottom  of  the 
pond.  During  that  season  he  probably  accomplished 
more  than  his  parents  did,  for  if  he  could  not  toil  he  could 
at  least  grow.  Of  course  they  may  have  been  growing, 
too,  but  it  was  less  noticeable  in  them  than  in  him.  Not 
only  was  he  increasing  in  size  and  weight,  but  he  was  stor- 
ing up  strength  and  strenuousness  for  the  work  that  lay 
before  him.  It  would  take  much  muscle  to  force  those 
long  yellow  teeth  of  his  through  the  hard,  tough  flesh  of 
the  maple  or  the  birch  or  the  poplar.  It  would  take  vigor 

m 


Forest  Neighbors 

and  push  and  enterprise  to  roll  the  heavy  billets  of  wood 
over  the  grass-tufts  to  the  edge  of  the  water.  And,  most 
of  all,  it  would  take  strength  and  nerve  and  determination 
to  tear  himself  away  from  a  steel  trap  and  leave  a  foot 
behind.  So  it  was  well  for  the  youngster  that  for  a  time 
he  had  nothing  to  do  but  grow. 

Spring  came  at  last,  and  many  of  the  male  beavers  pre- 
pared to  leave  home  for  a  while.  The  ladies  seemed  to 
prefer  not  to  be  bothered  by  the  presence  of  men-folk 
during  the  earliest  infancy  of  the  children;  so  the  men, 
probably  nothing  loath,  took  advantage  of  the  oppor- 
tunity to  see  something  of  the  world,  wandering  by  night 
up  and  down  the  streams,  and  hiding  by  day  in  burrows 
under  the  banks.  For  a  time  they  enjoyed  it,  but  as  the 
summer  dragged  by  they  came  straggling  home  one  af- 
ter another.  The  new  babies  who  had  arrived  in  their 
absence  had  passed  the  most  troublesome  age,  and  it  was 
time  to  begin  work  again.  The  dam  and  the  lodges 
needed  repairs,  and  there  was  much  food  to  be  gathered 
and  laid  up  for  the  coming  winter. 

Now,  on  a  dark  autumn  night,  behold  the  young  Beaver 
toiling  with  might  and  main.  His  parents  have  felled  a 
tree,  and  it  is  his  business  to  help  them  cut  up  the  best 

[8] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

portions  and  carry  them  home.  He  gnaws  off  a  small 
branch,  seizes  the  butt  end  between  his  teeth,  swings  it 
over  his  shoulder,  and  makes  for  the  water,  keeping  his 
head  twisted  around  to  the  right  or  left  so  that  the  end 
of  the  branch  may  trail  on  the  ground  behind  him.  Some- 
times he  even  rises  on  his  hind  legs,  and  walks  almost  up- 
right, with  his  broad,  strong  tail  for  a  prop  to  keep  him 
from  tipping  over  backward  if  his  load  happens  to  catch 
on  something.  Arrived  at  the  canal  or  at  the  edge  of  the 
pond,  he  jumps  in  and  swims  for  town,  still  carrying  the 
branch  over  his  shoulder,  and  finally  leaves  it  on  the  grow- 
ing pile  in  front  of  his  father's  lodge.  Or  perhaps  the 
stick  is  too  large  and  too  heavy  to  be  carried  in  such  a 
way.  In  that  case  it  must  be  cut  into  short  billets  and 
rolled,  as  a  cant-hook  man  rolls  a  log  down  a  skid  way. 
Only  the  Beaver  has  no  cant-hook  to  help  him,  and  no 
skidway,  either.  All  he  can  do  is  to  push  with  all  his 
might,  and  there  are  so  many,  many  grass-tufts  and  little 
hillocks  in  the  way  !  And  sometimes  the  billet  rolls  down 
into  a  hollow,  and  then  it  is  very  hard  to  get  it  out  again. 
He  works  like  a  beaver,  and  pushes  and  shoves  and  toils 
with  tremendous  energy,  but  I  am  afraid  that  more  than 
one  choice  stick  never  reaches  the  water. 


Forest  Neighbors 

These  were  his  first  tasks.  Later  on  he  learned  to  fell 
trees  himself.  Standing  up  on  his  hind  legs  and  tail,  with 
his  hands  braced  against  the  trunk,  he  would  hold  his  head 
sidewise,  open  his  mouth  wide,  set  his  teeth  against  the 
bark,  and  bring  his  jaws  together  with  a  savage  nip  that 
left  a  deep  gash  in  the  side  of  the  tree.  A  second  nip 
deepened  the  gash,  and  gave  it  more  of  a  downward  slant, 
and  two  or  three  more  carried  it  still  farther  into  the 
tough  wood.  Then  he  would  choose  a  new  spot  a  little 
farther  down,  and  start  a  second  gash,  which  was  made 
to  slant  up  toward  the  first.  And  when  he  thought 
that  they  were  both  deep  enough  he  would  set  his  teeth 
firmly  in  the  wood  between  them,  and  pull  and  jerk  and 
twist  at  it  until  he  had  wrenched  out  a  chip — a  chip  per- 
haps two  inches  long,  and  from  an  eighth  to  a  quarter  of  an 
inch  thick.  He  would  make  bigger  ones  when  he  grew  to 
be  bigger  himself,  but  you  mustn't  expect  too  much  at  first. 
Chip  after  chip  was  torn  out  in  this  way,  and  gradually 
he  would  work  around  the  tree  until  he  had  completely 
encircled  it.  Then  the  groove  was  made  deeper,  and  after 
a  while  it  would  have  to  be  broadened  so  that  he  could 
get  his  head  farther  into  it.  He  seemed  to  think  it  was 
of  immense  importance  to  get  the  job  done  as  quickly  as 

[10] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

possible,  for  he  worked  away  with  tremendous  energy  and 
eagerness,  as  if  felling  that  tree  was  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  that  was  worth  doing.  Once  in  a  while  he  would 
pause  for  a  moment  to  feel  of  it  with  his  hands,  and  to 
glance  up  at  the  top  to  see  whether  it  was  getting  ready 
to  fall,  and  several  times  he  stopped  long  enough  to  take 
a  refreshing  dip  in  the  pond ;  but  he  always  hurried  back, 
and  pitched  in  again  harder  than  ever.  In  fact,  he  some- 
times went  at  it  so  impetuously  that  he  slipped  and  rolled 
over  on  his  back.  Little  by  little  he  dug  away  the  tree's 
flesh  until  there  was  nothing  left  but  its  heart,  and  at  last 
it  began  to  crack  and  rend.  The  Beaver  jumped  aside  to 
get  out  of  the  way,  and  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  small, 
tender  branches,  and  delicious  little  twigs  and  buds  came 
crashing  down  where  he  could  cut  them  off  and  eat  them 
or  carry  them  away  at  his  leisure. 

And  so  the  citizens  labored,  and  their  labor  brought  its 
rich  reward,  and  everybody  was  busy  and  contented,  and 
life  was  decidedly  worth  living. 

But  one  black  November  night  our  hero's  father,  the 
wisest  old  beaver  in  all  the  town,  went  out  to  his  work 
and  never  came  home  again.  A  trapper  had  found  the 
rebuilt  city — a  scientific  trapper  who  had  studied  his 


Forest  Neighbors 

profession  for  years,  and  who  knew  just  how  to  go  to 
work.  He  kept  away  from  the  lodges  as  long  as  he 
could,  so  as  not  to  frighten  anyone ;  and  before  he  set 
a  single  trap  he  looked  the  ground  over  very  carefully, 
located  the  different  trails  that  ran  back  from  the  water's 
edge  toward  the  timber,  visited  the  stumps  of  the  felled 
trees,  and  paid  particular  attention  to  the  tooth-marks 
on  the  chips.  No  two  beavers  leave  marks  that  are 
exactly  alike.  The  teeth  of  one  are  flatter  or  rounder 
than  those  of  another,  while  a  third  has  large  or  small 
nicks  in  the  edges  of  his  yellow  chisels ;  and  each  tooth 
leaves  its  own  peculiar  signature  behind  it.  By  noting 
all  these  things  the  trapper  concluded  that  a  particular 
runway  in  the  wet,  grassy  margin  of  the  pond  was  the 
one  by  which  a  certain  old  beaver  always  left  the  water 
in  going  to  his  night's  labor.  That  beaver,  he  decided, 
would  best  be  the  first  one  taken,  for  he  was  probably  the 
head  of  a  family,  and  an  elderly  person  of  much  wisdom 
and  experience;  and  if  one  of  his  children  should  be 
caught  first  he  might  become  alarmed,  and  take  the  lead 
in  a  general  exodus. 

So  the  trapper  set  a  heavy  double-spring  trap  in  the 
edge  of  the  water  at  the  foot  of  the  runway,  and  covered 

[12] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

it  with  a  thin  sheet  of  moss.  And  that  night,  as  the  old 
beaver  came  swimming  up  to  the  shore,  he  put  his  foot 
down  where  he  shouldn't,  and  two  steel  jaws  flew  up  and 
clasped  him  around  the  thigh.  He  had  felt  that  grip 
before.  Was  not  half  of  his  right  hand  gone,  and  three 
toes  from  his  left  hind  foot?  But  this  was  a  far  more 
serious  matter  than  either  of  those  adventures.  It  was 
not  a  hand  that  was  caught  this  time,  nor  yet  a  toe,  or 
toes.  It  was  his  right  hind  leg,  well  up  toward  his 
body,  and  the  strongest  beaver  that  ever  lived  could  not 
have  pulled  himself  free.  Now  when  a  beaver  is  fright- 
ened, he  of  course  makes  for  deep  water.  There,  he 
thinks,  no  enemy  can  follow  him ;  and,  what  is  more,  it 
is  the  highway  to  his  lodge,  and  to  the  burrow  that  he 
has  hollowed  in  the  bank  for  a  refuge  in  case  his  house 
should  be  attacked.  So  this  beaver  turned  and  jumped 
back  into  the  water  the  way  he  had  come  ;  but,  alas !  he 
took  his  enemy  with  him.  The  heavy  trap  dragged  him 
to  the  bottom  like  a  stone,  and  the  short  chain  fastened 
to  a  stake  kept  him  from  going  very  far  toward  home. 
For  a  few  minutes  he  struggled  with  all  his  might,  and 
the  soft  black  mud  rose  about  him  in  inky  clouds.  Then 
he  quieted  down  and  lay  very,  very  still ;  and  the  next 

[13] 


Forest  Neighbors 

day  the  trapper  came  along  and  pulled  him  out  by  the 
chain. 

Something  else  happened  the  same  night.  Another 
wise  old  beaver,  the  head  man  of  another  lodge,  was 
killed  by  a  falling  tree.  He  ought  to  have  known  better 
than  to  let  such  a  thing  happen.  I  really  don't  see  how 
he  could  have  been  so  careless.  But  the  best  of  us  will 
make  mistakes  at  times,  and  any  pitcher  may  go  once  too 
often  to  the  well.  I  suppose  that  he  had  felled  hundreds 
of  trees  and  bushes,  big  and  little,  in  the  course  of  his 
life,  and  he  had  never  yet  met  with  an  accident ;  but  this 
time  he  thought  he  would  take  one  more  bite  after  the 
tree  had  really  begun  to  fall.  So  he  thrust  his  head 
again  into  the  narrowing  notch,  and  the  wooden  jaws 
closed  upon  him  with  a  nip  that  was  worse  than  his  own. 
He  tried  to  draw  back,  but  it  was  too  late,  his  skull 
crashed  in,  and  his  life  went  out  like  a  candle. 

And  so,  in  a  few  hours,  the  city  lost  two  of  its  best 
citizens — the  very  two  whom  it  could  least  afford  to  lose. 
If  they  had  been  spared  they  might,  perhaps,  have 
known  enough  to  scent  the  coming  danger,  and  to  lead 
their  families  and  neighbors  away  from  the  doomed 
town,  deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  wilderness.  As  it 

[14] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

was,  the  trapper  had  things  all  his  own  way,  and  by 
working  carefully  and  cautiously  he  added  skin  after  skin 
to  his  store  of  beaver-pelts.  I  haven't  time  to  tell  you 
of  all  the  different  ways  in  which  he  set  his  traps,  nor 
can  we  stop  to  talk  of  the  various  baits  that  he  used, 
from  castoreum  to  fresh  sticks  of  birch  or  willow,  or  of 
those  other  traps,  still  more  artfully  arranged,  which  had 
no  bait  at  all,  but  were  cunningly  hidden  where  the  poor 
beavers  would  be  almost  certain  to  step  into  them  before 
they  saw  them.  After  all,  it  was  his  awful  success  that 
mattered,  rather  than  the  way  in  which  he  achieved  it. 
Our  friend's  mother  was  one  of  the  next  to  go,  and  the 
way  his  brothers  and  sisters  disappeared  one  after  an- 
other was  a  thing  to  break  one's  heart. 

One  night  the  Beaver  himself  came  swimming  down  the 
pond,  homeward  bound,  and  as  he  dived  and  approached 
the  submarine  entrance  of  the  lodge  he  noticed  some 
stakes  driven  into  the  mud — stakes  that  had  never  been 
there  before.  They  seemed  to  form  two  rows,  one  on 
each  side  of  his  course,  but  as  there  was  room  enough 
for  him  to  pass  between  them  he  swam  straight  ahead 
without  stopping.  His  hands  had  no  webs  between  the 
fingers,  and  were  of  little  use  in  swimming,  so  he  had 

[15] 


Forest  Neighbors 

folded  them  back  against  his  body ;  but  his  big  feet 
were  working  like  the  wheels  of  a  twin-screw  steamer, 
and  he  was  forging  along  at  a  great  rate.  Suddenly, 
half-way  down  the  lines  of  stakes,  his  breast  touched  the 
pan  of  a  steel  trap,  and  the  jaws  flew  up  quick  as  a 
wink  and  strong  as  a  vise.  Fortunately  there  was  noth- 
ing that  they  could  take  hold  of.  They  struck  him  so 
hard  that  they  lifted  him  bodily  upward,  but  they 
caught  only  a  few  hairs. 

Even  a  scientific  trapper  may  sometimes  make  mistakes, 
and  when  this  one  came  around  to  visit  his  trap,  and 
found  it  sprung  but  empty,  he  thought  that  the  beavers 
must  have  learned  its  secret  and  sprung  it  on  purpose. 
There  was  no  use,  he  decided,  in  trying  to  catch  such  in- 
telligent animals  in  their  own  doorway,  and  he  took  the 
trap  up  and  set  it  in  a  more  out-of-the-way  place.  And 
so  one  source  of  danger  was  removed,  just  because  the 
Beaver  was  lucky  enough  to  touch  the  pan  with  his 
breast  instead  of  with  a  foot. 

A  week  later  he  was  really  caught  by  his  right  hand, 
and  met  with  one  of  the  most  thrilling  adventures  of  his 
life.  Oh,  but  that  was  a  glorious  night!  Dark  as  a 
pocket,  no  wind,  thick  black  clouds  overhead,  and  the 

[16] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

rain  coming  down  in  a  steady,  steady  drizzle — just  the 
kind  of  a  night  that  the  beavers  love,  when  the  friendly 
darkness  shuts  their  little  city  in  from  all  the  rest  of  the 
world,  and  when  they  feel  safe  and  secure.  Then,  how 
the  long  yellow  teeth  gouge  and  tear  at  the  tough  wood, 
how  the  trees  come  tumbling  down,  and  how  the  branches 
and  the  little  logs  come  hurrying  in  to  augment  the  win- 
ter food-piles !  Often  of  late  the  Beaver  had  noticed  an 
unpleasant  odor  along  the  shores,  an  odor  that  frightened 
him  and  made  him  very  uneasy,  but  to-night  the  rain 
had  washed  it  all  away,  and  the  woods  smelled  as  sweet 
and  clean  as  if  God  had  just  made  them  over  new.  And 
on  this  night,  of  all  others,  the  Beaver  put  his  hand 
squarely  into  a  steel  trap. 

He  was  in  a  shallow  portion  of  the  pond,  and  the  chain 
was  too  short  for  him  to  reach  water  deep  enough  to 
drown  him ;  but  now  a  new  danger  appeared,  for  there 
on  the  low,  mossy  bank  was  an  otter,  glaring  at  him 
through  the  darkness.  Beaver-meat  makes  a  very  ac- 
ceptable meal  for  an  otter,  and  the  Beaver  knew  it.  And 
he  knew,  also,  how  utterly  helpless  he  was,  either  to  fly 
or  to  resist,  with  that  heavy  trap  on  his  arm,  and  its 
chain  binding  him  to  the  stake.  His  heart  sank  like 

[17] 


Forest  Neighbors 

lead,  and  he  trembled  from  his  nose  to  the  end  of  his 
tail,  and  whimpered  and  cried  like  a  baby.  But, 
strange  to  say,  it  was  the  trapper  who  saved  him,  though, 
of  course,  it  was  done  quite  unintentionally.  As  the 
otter  advanced  to  the  attack  there  came  a  sudden  sharp 
click,  and  in  another  second  he  too  was  struggling  for 
dear  life.  Two  traps  had  been  set  in  the  shallow 
water.  The  Beaver  had  found  one,  and  the  otter  the 
other. 

The  full  story  of  that  night,  with  all  its  details  of  fear 
and  suffering  and  pain,  will  never  be  written  ;  and  prob- 
ably it  is  as  well  that  it  should  not  be.  But  I  can  give  you 
a  few  of  the  facts,  if  you  care  to  hear  them.  The  Beaver 
soon  found  that  he  was  out  of  the  otter's  reach,  and  with 
his  fears  relieved  on  that  point  he  set  to  work  to  free  himself 
from  the  trap.  Round  and  round  he  twisted,  till  there 
came  a  little  snap,  and  the  bone  of  his  arm  broke  short  off 
in  the  steel  jaws.  Then  for  a  long,  long  time  he  pulled 
and  pulled  with  all  his  might,  and  at  last  the  tough  skin 
was  rent  apart,  and  the  muscles  and  sinews  were  torn  out 
by  the  roots.  His  right  hand  was  gone,  and  he  was  so 
weak  and  faint  that  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  strength  and 
life  of  his  whole  body  had  gone  with  it.  No  matter.  He 

[18] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 
free,  and  he  swam  away  to  the  nearest  burrow  and 
lay  down  to  rest.  The  otter  tried  to  do  the  same,  but  he 
was  caught  by  the  thick  of  his  thigh,  and  his  case  was  a 
hopeless  one.  Next  day  the  trapper  found  him  alive,  but 
very  meek  and  quiet,  worn  out  with  fear  and  useless 
struggles.  In  the  other  trap  were  a  beaver's  hand  and 
some  long  shreds  of  flesh  and  sinew  that  must  once  have 
reached  well  up  into  the  shoulder. 

We  shall  have  to  hurry  over  the  events  of  the  next  winter 
— the  last  winter  in  the  city's  history.  By  the  time  the 
Beaver's  wound  was  healed — Nature  was  good  to  him,  and 
the  skin  soon  grew  over  the  torn  stump — the  pond  was 
covered  with  ice.  The  beavers,  only  half  as  numerous  as 
they  had  been  a  few  weeks  before,  kept  close  in  their 
lodges  and  burrows,  and  for  a  time  they  lived  in  peace  and 
quiet,  and  their  numbers  suffered  no  further  diminution. 
Then  the  trapper  took  to  setting  his  traps  through  the 
ice,  and  before  long  matters  were  worse  than  ever.  By 
spring  the  few  beavers  that  remained  were  so  thoroughly 
frightened  that  the  ancient  town  was  again  abandoned — 
this  time  forever.  The  lodges  fell  to  ruins,  the  burrows 
caved  in,  the  dam  gave  way,  the  pond  and  canals  were 
drained,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  city. 

[19] 


Forest  Neighbors 

Yet  not  quite  the  end,  after  all.  The  beavers  have  van- 
ished from  their  old  habitation,  but  their  work  remains 
in  the  broad  meadows  cleared  of  timber  by  their  teeth, 
and  covered  with  rich  black  soil  by  the  inundations  from 
their  dam.  There  is  an  Indian  legend  which  says  that 
after  the  Creator  separated  the  land  from  the  water  He 
employed  gigantic  beavers  to  smooth  it  down  and  prepare 
it  for  the  abode  of  men.  However  that  may  be,  the  farm- 
ers of  generations  to  come  will  have  reason  to  rise  up 
and  bless  those  busy  little  citizens — but  I  don't  suppose 
they  will  ever  do  it. 

One  city  was  gone,  but  there  were  two  that  could 
claim  the  honor  of  being  our  Beaver's  home  at  different 
periods  of  his  life.  The  first,  as  we  have  already  seen, 
was  ancient  and  historic.  The  second  was  brand-new. 
Let  us  see  how  it  had  its  beginning.  The  Beaver  got 
married  about  the  time  he  left  his  old  home ;  and  this,  by 
the  way,  is  a  very  good  thing  to  do  when  you  want  to 
start  a  new  town.  Except  for  his  missing  hand,  his  wife 
was  so  like  him  that  it  would  have  puzzled  you  to  tell 
which  was  which.  I  think  it  is  very  likely  that  she  was 
his  twin  sister,  but  of  course  that's  none  of  our  business. 
Do  you  want  to  know  what  they  looked  like?  They 

[20] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

measured  about  three  feet  six  inches  from  tip  of  nose  to 
tip  of  tail,  and  they  weighed  perhaps  thirty  pounds 
apiece.  Their  bodies  were  heavy  and  clumsy,  and  were 
covered  with  thick,  soft,  grayish  under-fur,  which  in  turn 
was  overlaid  with  longer  hairs  of  a  glistening  chestnut- 
brown,  making  a  coat  that  was  thoroughly  water-proof  as 
well  as  very  beautiful.  Their  heads  were  somewhat  like 
those  of  gigantic  rats,  with  small,  light-brown  eyes,  little 
round  ears  covered  with  hair,  and  long  orange-colored  in- 
cisors looking  out  from  between  parted  lips.  One  por- 
trait will  answer  for  both  of  them. 

They  wandered  about  for  some  time,  looking  for  a  suit- 
able location,  and  examining  several  spots  along  the  beds  of 
various  little  rivers,  none  of  which  seemed  to  be  just  right. 
But  at  last  they  found,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  wilderness, 
a  place  where  a  shallow  stream  ran  over  a  hard  stony  bot- 
tom, and  here  they  set  to  work.  It  was  a  very  desirable 
situation  in  every  respect.  At  one  side  stood  a  large 
tree,  so  close  that  it  could  probably  be  used  as  a  buttress 
for  the  dam  when  the  latter  was  sufficiently  lengthened  to 
reach  it;  while  above  the  shallow  the  ground  was  low  and 
flat  on  both  sides  for  some  distance  back  from  the  banks, 
so  that  the  pond  would  have  plenty  of  room  to  spread 


Forest  Neighbors 

out.  If  they  could  have  spoken  they  would  probably 
have  said  that  the  place  was  a  dam  site  better  than  any 
other  they  had  seen. 

Alder  bushes  laid  lengthwise  of  the  current  were  the  first 
materials  used,  and  for  a  time  the  water  filtered  through 
them  with  hardly  a  pause.  Then  the  beavers  began  lay- 
ing mud  and  stones  and  moss  on  this  brush  foundation, 
scooping  them  up  with  their  hands,  and  holding  them 
under  their  chins  as  they  waddled  or  swam  to  the  dam. 
The  Beaver  himself  was  not  very  good  at  this  sort  of 
work,  for  his  right  hand  was  gone,  as  we  know,  and  it 
was  not  easy  for  him  to  carry  things ;  but  he  did  the  best 
he  could,  and  together  they  accomplished  a  great  deal. 
The  mud  and  the  grass  and  such-like  materials  were 
deposited  mainly  on  the  upper  face  of  the  dam,  where 
the  pressure  of  the  water  only  sufficed  to  drive  them 
tighter  in  among  the  brush ;  and  thus,  little  by  little,  a 
smooth  bank  of  earth  was  presented  to  the  current, 
backed  up  on  the  lower  side  by  a  tangle  of  sticks  and 
poles.  Its  top  was  very  level  and  straight,  and  along  its 
whole  length  the  water  trickled  over  in  a  succession  of 
tiny  rills.  This  was  important,  for  if  all  the  overflow 
had  been  in  one  place  the  stream  might  have  been  so 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

strong  and  rapid  as  to  eat  into  the  dam,  and  perhaps 
cany  away  the  whole  structure. 

The  first  year  the  beavers  did  not  try  to  raise  the  stream 
more  than  a  foot  above  its  original  level.  There  was 
much  other  work  to  be  done — a  house  to  be  built,  and 
food  to  be  laid  in  for  the  winter — and  if  they  spent  too 
much  time  on  the  dam  they  might  freeze  or  starve  before 
spring.  A  few  rods  up-stream  was  a  grassy  point  which 
the  rising  waters  had  transformed  into  an  island,  and  here 
they  built  their  lodge,  a  hollow  mound  of  sticks  and  mud, 
with  a  small,  cave-like  chamber  in  the  centre,  from  which 
two  tunnels  led  out  under  the  pond — "  angles,"  the  trap- 
pers call  them.  The  walls  were  masses  of  earth  and 
wood  and  stones,  so  thick  and  solid  that  even  a  man  with 
an  axe  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  penetrate  them. 
Only  at  the  very  apex  of  the  mound  there  was  no  mud, 
nothing  but  tangled  sticks  through  which  a  breath  of 
fresh  air  found  its  way  now  and  then.  In  spite  of  this 
feeble  attempt  at  ventilation  I  am  obliged  to  admit  that 
the  atmosphere  of  the  lodge  was  often  a  good  deal  like 
that  of  the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta,  but  beavers  are  so 
constituted  that  they  do  not  need  much  oxygen,  and  they 
did  not  seem  to  mind  it.  In  all  other  respects  the  house 

[23] 


Forest  Neighbors 

was  neat  and  clean.  The  floor  was  only  two  or  three 
inches  above  the  level  of  the  water  in  the  angles,  and 
would  naturally  have  been  a  bed  of  mud  ;  but  they  mixed 
little  twigs  with  it,  and  stamped  and  pounded  it  down 
till  it  was  hard  and  smooth.  I  think  likely  the  Beaver's 
tail  had  something  to  do  with  this  part  of  the  work,  as 
well  as  with  finishing  off  the  dam,  for  he  was  fond  of 
slapping  things  with  it,  and  it  was  just  the  right  shape 
for  such  use.  In  fact,  I  fear  that  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  tail,  and  for  other  tails  like  it,  neither  of  the  cities 
would  ever  have  been  as  complete  as  they  were.  With 
the  ends  of  projecting  sticks  cut  off  to  leave  the  walls 
even  and  regular,  and  with  long  grass  carried  in  to  make 
the  beds,  the  lodge  was  finished  and  ready. 

And  now  you  might  have  seen  the  beavers  coming  home 
to  rest  after  a  night's  labor  at  felling  timber — swimming 
across  the  pond  toward  the  island,  with  only  the  tops 
of  their  two  little  heads  showing  above  the  water.  In 
front  of  the  lodge  each  tail-rudder  gives  a  slap  and  a 
twist,  and  they  dive  for  the  submarine  door  of  one  of  the 
angles.  In  another  second  they  are  swimming  along  the 
dark,  narrow  tunnel,  making  the  water  surge  around 
them.  Suddenly  the  roof  of  the  passage  rises,  and  their 

[24] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

heads  pop  up  into  the  air.  A  yard  or  two  farther,  and 
they  enter  the  chamber  of  the  lodge,  with  its  level  floor 
and  its  low,  arched  roof.  And  there  in  the  darkness 
they  lie  down  on  their  grass  beds  and  go  to  sleep.  It  is 
good  to  have  a  home  of  your  own  where  you  may  take 
your  ease  when  the  night's  work  is  done. 

Near  the  upper  end  of  the  pond,  where  the  bank  was 
higher,  they  dug  a  long  burrow,  running  back  ten  or  fif- 
teen feet  into  the  ground.  This  was  to  be  the  last 
resort  if,  by  any  possibility,  the  lodge  should  ever  be  in- 
vaded. It  was  a  weary  task,  digging  that  burrow,  for  its 
mouth  was  deep  under  the  water,  and  every  few  minutes 
they  had  to  stop  work  and  come  to  the  surface  for  breath. 
Night  after  night  they  scooped  and  shovelled,  rushing  the 
job  as  fast  as  they  knew  how,  but  making  pretty  slow 
progress  in  spite  of  all  their  efforts.  It  was  done  at 
last,  however,  and  they  felt  easier  in  their  minds  when 
they  knew  that  it  was  ready  for  use  in  case  of  necessity. 
From  its  mouth  in  the  depths  of  the  pond  it  sloped 
gradually  upwaid  to  a  dry  chamber  under  the  roots  of  a 
large  bir  h ;  and  here,  where  a  few  tiny  holes  were  not 
likely  to  be  noticed  from  the  outside,  two  or  three  small 
openings,  almost  hidden  by  the  moss  and  dead  leaves,  let 

[25] 


Forest  Neighbors 

in  the  air  and  an  occasional  ray  of  light.  The  big  tree 
made  a  solid  roof  overhead,  and  the  chamber  was  large 
enough,  with  a  little  crowding,  to  accommodate  a  whole 
family  of  beavers. 

There  was  only  one  other  heavy  task,  and  that  was  the 
gathering  of  the  wood,  which,  with  its  bark,  was  to  serve 
as  food  through  the  winter.  This  too  was  finally  fin- 
ished, and  the  very  last  things  that  the  beavers  did  that 
fall  were  to  put  another  coat  of  mud  on  the  outside  of  the 
lodge,  and  to  see  that  the  dam  was  in  the  best  possible 
condition.  No  repairing  could  be  done  after  the  ice  made ; 
and  if  the  dam  should  give  way  at  any  time  during  the 
winter,  the  pond  would  be  drained,  and  the  entrances  of 
the  lodge  and  the  burrow  would  be  thrown  open  to  any 
prowling  marauders  that  might  happen  to  pass  that  way. 
So  it  was  imperative  to  have  things  in  good  order  before 
cold  weather  came  on. 

There  came  a  quiet,  windless  day,  when  the  sky  was  gray, 
and  when  the  big  snow-flakes  came  floating  lazily  down, 
some  to  lose  themselves  in  the  black  water,  and  some  to 
robe  the  woods  and  the  shores  in  white.  At  nightfall  the 
clouds  broke  up,  the  stars  shone  forth,  and  the  air  grew 
colder  and  keener  till  long  crystal  spears  shot  out  across 

[26] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

the  pond,  and  before  morning  a  sheet  of  glass  had  spread 
from  shore  to  shore.  I  do  not  think  it  was  unwelcome. 
The  beavers  were  shut  in  for  the  winter,  or  could  only  go 
abroad  with  considerable  difficulty,  but  they  had  each 
other,  and  there  was  a  little  world  of  their  own  down  under 
the  ice  and  snow.  The  chamber  of  the  lodge  was  home, 
and  just  outside  was  their  food  storehouse — the  big  pile 
of  wood  which  it  had  cost  so  much  labor  to  gather.  One 
of  the  entrances  was  shorter  and  straighter  than  the  other, 
and  through  this  they  used  to  bring  in  sticks  from  the 
heap,  and  lay  them  on  the  floor  between  the  beds,  where 
they  could  devour  the  bark  at  their  leisure.  If  they  grew 
restless,  and  wanted  to  go  farther  afield,  there  was  the 
bottom  of  the  pond  to  be  explored,  and  the  big  luscious 
lily-roots  to  be  dug  up  for  a  change  of  diet.  It  was  a 
peaceful  time,  a  time  of  rest  from  the  labors  of  the  past 
year,  and  of  growing  fat  and  strong  for  those  of  the  year 
to  come.  We  have  much  goods  laid  up  for  many  months ; 
let  us  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  and  hope  that  the  trap- 
pers will  not  come  to-morrow. 

The  babies  came  in  May,  and  I  suppose  that  the  young 
father  and  mother  were  almost  as  proud  and  happy  as 
some  of  you  who  are  in  similar  circumstances.  The  Beaver 

[27] 


Forest  Neighbors 

did  not  wander  very  far  from  home  that  spring  and  sum- 
mer, nor  was  he  away  very  long  at  a  time. 

There  were  five  of  the  children,  and  they  were  very  pretty 
— about  as  large  as  rats,  and  covered  with  thick,  soft, 
silky,  reddish-brown  fur,  but  without  any  of  the  longer, 
coarser,  chestnut-colored  hairs  that  formed  their  parents' 
outer  coats.  They  were  very  playful,  too,  as  the  father  and 
mother  had  been  in  their  own  youthful  days.  For  a  while 
they  had  to  be  nursed,  like  other  babies;  but  by  and  by 
the  old  beavers  began  to  bring  in  little  twigs  for  them, 
about  the  size  of  lead-pencils ;  and  if  you  had  been  there, 
and  your  eyes  had  been  sharp  enough  to  pierce  the  gloom, 
you  might  have  seen  the  youngsters  exercising  their  brand 
new  teeth,  and  learning  to  sit  up  and  hold  sticks  in  their 
baby  hands  while  they  ate  the  bark.  And  wouldn't  you 
have  liked  to  be  present  on  the  night  when  they  first  went 
swimming  down  the  long,  dark  tunnel;  and,  rising  to  the 
surface,  looked  around  on  their  world  of  woods  and  water 
— on  the  quiet  pond,  with  its  glassy  smoothness  broken 
only  by  their  own  ripples;  on  the  tall  trees,  lifting  their 
fingers  toward  the  sky;  and  on  the  stars,  marching  si- 
lently across  the  heavens,  and  looking  down  with  still,  un- 
winking eyes  on  another  family  of  babies  that  had  come 

[28] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

to  live  and  love  and  be  happy  for  a  little  while  on  God's 
earth  ? 

One  of  the  children  was  killed  by  an  otter  before  the 
summer  was  over,  but  I  am  glad  to  say  that  the  other 
four  grew  up  and  were  a  credit  to  their  parents. 

The  babies  were  not  the  only  addition  to  the  new  city 
during  that  year,  for  about  mid-summer  another  pair  of 
beavers  came  and  built  a  lodge  near  the  upper  end  of  the 
pond.  It  was  a  busy  season  for  everybody — for  our  old 
friends  as  well  as  for  the  new-comers.  The  food-sticks  which 
had  been  peeled  off  their  bark  during  the  winter  furnished 
a  good  supply  of  construction  material,  and  the  dam  was 
built  up  several  inches  higher,  and  was  lengthened  to  the 
buttress-tree  on  one  side,  and  for  a  distance  of  two  or 
three  rods  on  the  other,  so  as  to  keep  the  water  from  flow- 
ing around  the  ends.  As  the  water-level  rose  it  became 
necessary  to  build  up  the  floor  of  the  lodge  in  order  to 
keep  it  from  being  flooded  ;  and  that,  in  turn,  necessitated 
raising  the  roof  by  the  simple  process  of  hollowing  it  out 
from  within  and  adding  more  material  on  the  outside. 
In  the  same  way  the  lodge  was  made  both  longer  and 
broader,  to  accommodate  the  growing  family  and  the  still 
further  increase  that  was  to  be  expected  the  following 

[29] 


Forest  Neighbors 

spring.  More  burrows  were  dug  in  the  shore  of  the  pond — 
you  can't  have  too  many  of  them — and  a  much  larger  stock 
of  food  wood  was  gathered,  for  there  were  six  mouths,  in- 
stead of  two,  to  be  fed  through  the  coming  winter.  The 
father  and  mother  worked  very  hard,  and  even  the  babies 
helped  with  the  lighter  tasks,  such  as  carrying  home  small 
branches,  and  mending  little  leaks  in  the  dam.  The 
second  pair  of  beavers  was  also  busy  with  lodge  and  bur- 
row and  storehouse,  and  so  the  days  slipped  by  very 
rapidly. 

Only  once  that  year  did  a  man  come  to  town,  and 
then  he  did  not  do  anything  very  dreadful.  He  was 
not  a  trapper,  he  was  only  an  amateur  naturalist  who 
wanted  to  see  the  beavers  at  their  work,  and  who 
thought  he  was  smart  enough  to  catch  them  at  it.  His 
plan  was  simple  enough ;  he  made  a  breach  in  the  dam 
one  night,  and  then  climbed  a  tree  and  waited  for  them 
to  come  and  mend  it.  It  was  bright  moonlight,  and  he 
thought  he  would  see  the  whole  thing  and  learn  some 
wonderful  secrets. 

The  Beaver  was  at  work  in  the  woods  not  very  far 
away,  and  presently  he  came  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
pond,  rolling  a  heavy  birch  cutting  before  him.  He 

[30] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

noticed  at  once  that  the  water  was  falling,  and  he 
started  straight  for  the  dam  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 
The  amateur  naturalist  saw  him  coming,  a  dark  speck 
moving  swiftly  down  the  pond,  with  a  long  V-shaped 
ripple  spreading  out  behind  him  like  the  flanks  of  a 
flock  of  wild  geese.  But  the  beaver  was  doing  some 
thinking  while  he  swam.  He  had  never  before  known 
the  water  to  fall  so  suddenly  and  rapidly ;  there  must  be 
a  very  bad  break  in  the  dam.  How  could  it  have  hap- 
pened ?  It  looked  suspicious.  It  looked  very  suspicious 
indeed;  and  just  before  he  reached  the  dam  he  stopped 
to  reconnoitre,  and  at  once  caught  sight  of  the  naturalist 
up  in  the  tree.  His  tail  rose  in  the  air  and  came  down 
with  the  loudest  whack  that  had  ever  echoed  across  the 
pond,  a  stroke  that  sent  the  spray  flying  in  every  direc- 
tion, and  that  might  have  been  heard  three-quarters  of 
a  mile  away.  His  wife  heard  it,  and  paused  in  her 
work  of  felling  a  tree ;  the  children  heard  it,  and  the 
neighbors  heard  it ;  and  they  all  knew  it  meant  business. 
The  Beaver  dived  like  a  loon  and  swam  for  dear  life, 
and  he  did  not  come  to  the  surface  again  till  he  had 
reached  the  farther  end  of  the  pond  and  was  out  of 
sight  behind  a  grassy  point.  There  he  stayed,  now  and 

[81] 


Forest  Neighbors 

then  striking  the  water  with  his  tail  as  a  signal  that  the 
danger  was  not  yet  over.  It  isn't  every  animal  that  can 
use  his  caudal  appendage  as  a  stool,  as  a  rudder,  as  a 
third  hind  leg,  as  a  trowel  for  smoothing  the  floor  of  his 
house,  and  as  a  tocsin  for  alarming  his  fellow-citizens. 

The  naturalist  roosted  in  the  tree  till  his  teeth  were 
chattering  and  he  was  fairly  blue  with  cold,  and  then  he 
scrambled  down  and  went  back  to  his  camp,  where  he 
had  a  violent  chill.  The  next  night  it  rained,  and  as  he 
did  not  want  to  get  wet  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
stay  in  his  tent.  When  he  visited  the  pond  again  the 
dam  had  been  repaired  and  the  water  was  up  to  its  usual 
level.  He  decided  that  watching  beavers  wasn't  very 
interesting,  hardly  worth  the  trouble  it  cost ;  and  he 
guessed  he  knew  enough  about  them,  anyhow.  So 
the  next  day  he  packed  up  his  camping  outfit  and  went 
home. 

In  the  following  year  the  population  was  increased  to 
eighteen,  for  six  more  babies  arrived  in  our  Beaver's 
lodge,  and  four  in  his  neighbors'.  In  another  twelve- 
month the  first  four  were  old  enough  to  build  lodges  and 
found  homes  of  their  own ;  and  so  the  city  grew,  and 
our  Beaver  and  his  wife  were  the  original  inhabitants, 

[32] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

the  first  settlers,  the  most  looked-up-to  of  all  the  citi- 
zens. You  are  not  to  suppose,  however,  that  the  Beaver 
was  mayor  of  the  town.  There  was  no  city  govern- 
ment. The  family  was  the  unit,  and  each  household  was 
a  law  unto  itself.  But  that  did  not  keep  him  from 
being  the  oldest,  the  wisest,  the  most  knowing  of  all 
the  beavers  in  the  community,  just  as  his  father  had 
been  before  him  in  another  town. 

I  don't  believe  you  care  to  hear  all  about  the  years 
that  followed.  They  were  years  of  peace  and  growth,  of 
marriages  and  homebuilding,  of  many  births  and  a 
few  deaths,  of  winter  rest  and  summer  labor,  and  of 
quiet  domestic  happiness.  There  was  little  excitement, 
and,  best  of  all,  there  were  no  trappers.  The  time 
came  when  the  Beaver  might  well  say,  as  he  looked 
around  on  the  community  which  he  and  his  wife  had 
founded,  that  he  was  a  citizen  of  no  mean  city. 

But  this  could  not  last.  A  great  calamity  was  coming 
— a  calamity  beside  which  the  slow  destruction  of  the  for- 
mer town  would  seem  tame  and  uninteresting. 

One  bright  February  day  the  Beaver  and  his  wife  left 
their  lodge  to  look  for  lily-roots.  They  had  found  a  big 
fat  one  and  were  just  about  to  begin  their  feast,  when 

[88] 


Forest  Neighbors 

they  heard  foot-steps  on  the  ice  over  their  heads,  and  the 
voices  of  several  men  talking  eagerly.  They  made  for 
the  nearest  burrow  as  fast  as  they  could  go,  and  stayed 
there  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  when  they  returned  to 
their  lodge  they  found — but  I'm  going  too  fast. 

The  men  were  Indians  and  half-breeds,  and  they  were 
in  high  feather  over  their  discovery.  Around  this  pond 
there  must  be  enough  beaver-skins  to  keep  them  in  gro- 
ceries and  tobacco  and  whiskey  for  a  long  time  to  come. 
But  to  find  a  city  is  one  thing,  and  to  get  hold  of  its  in- 
habitants is  another  and  a  very  different  one.  One  of 
the  Indians  was  an  elderly  man  who  in  the  old  days  had 
trapped  beaver  in  Canada  for  the  Hudson  Bay  Company, 
and  he  assumed  the  direction  of  the  work.  First  of  all 
they  chopped  holes  in  the  ice  and  drove  a  line  of  stakes 
across  the  stream  just  above  the  pond,  so  that  no  one 
might  escape  in  that  direction.  Then,  by  pounding  on 
the  ice,  and  cutting  more  holes  in  it  here  and  there,  they 
found  the  entrances  to  all  the  lodges  and  most  of  the  bur- 
rows, and  closed  them  also  with  stakes  driven  into  the 
bottom.  Fortunately  they  did  not  find  the  burrow 
where  our  Beaver  and  his  wife  had  taken  refuge.  They 
were  about  to  break  open  the  roofs  of  the  lodges  when 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

the  old  man  proposed  that  they  should  play  a  trick  on 
one  of  the  beaver  families — a  trick  which  his  father  had 
taught  him  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  when  the  beavers 
were  many  in  the  woods  around  Lake  Superior.  He  de- 
scribed it  with  enthusiasm,  and  his  companions  agreed 
that  it  would  be  great  fun.  For  a  time  there  was  much 
chopping  of  ice  and  driving  of  stakes,  and  then  all  was 
quiet  again. 

By  and  by  one  of  our  Beaver's  children  began  to  feel 
hungry,  and  as  his  father  and  mother  had  not  come  home 
he  decided  to  go  out  to  the  wood-pile  and  get  something 
to  eat.  So  he  took  a  header  from  his  bed  into  the  water, 
and  swam  down  the  angle.  The  door  had  been  unbarred 
again,  and  he  passed  out  without  difficulty,  but  when  he 
reached  the  pile  he  found  it  surrounded  by  a  fence  made 
of  stakes  set  so  close  together  that  he  could  not  pass  be- 
tween them.  He  swam  clear  around  it,  and  at  last  found 
one  gap  just  wide  enough  to  admit  his  body.  He  passed 
in,  and  as  he  did  so  his  back  grazed  a  small  twig  which 
had  been  thrust  down  through  a  hole  in  the  ice,  and  the 
watching  Indians  saw  it  move,  and  knew  that  a  beaver 
had  entered  the  trap.  He  picked  out  a  nice  stick  of  con- 
venient size,  and  started  to  return  to  the  lodge.  But 

[85] 


Forest  Neighbors 

where  was  that  gap  in  the  fence  ?  This  was  the  place, 
he  was  sure.  Here  were  two  stakes  between  which  he 
had  certainly  passed  as  he  came  in,  but  now  another 
stood  squarely  between  them,  and  the  gate  was  barred. 
He  swam  all  round  the  wood-pile,  looking  for  a  way  out, 
and  poking  his  little  brown  nose  between  the  stakes,  but 
there  was  no  escape,  and  when  he  came  back  to  the 
entrance  and  found  it  still  closed  his  last  hope  died,  and 
he  gave  up  in  despair.  His  heart  and  lungs  and  all  his 
circulatory  apparatus  had  been  so  designed  by  the  Great 
Architect  that  he  might  live  for  many  minutes  under 
water,  but  they  could  not  keep  him  alive  indefinitely. 
Overhead  was  the  ice,  and  all  around  was  that  cruel 
fence.  Only  a  rod  away  was  home,  where  his  brothers 
and  sisters  were  waiting  for  him,  and  where  there  was  air 
to  breathe  and  life  to  live — but  he  could  not  reach  it. 
You  have  all  read  or  heard  how  a  drowning  man  feels, 
and  I  suppose  it  is  much  the  same  with  a  drowning 
beaver.  They  say  it  is  an  easy  death. 

By  and  by  a  hooked  stick  came  down  through  a  hole 
in  the  ice  and  drew  him  out,  the  gate  was  unbarred,  the 
twig  was  replaced,  and  the  Indians  waited  for  another 
hungry  little  beaver  to  come  for  his  dinner.  That's 

[86] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

enough.      You  know  now  what  the  parents  found  when 
they  came  home — or  rather  what  they  didn't  find. 

It  would  have  taken  too  long  to  dispose  of  the  whole  city 
in  this  way,  so  the  Indians  finally  broke  the  dam  and  let 
the  water  out  of  the  pond,  and  then  they  tore  open  the 
lodges  and  all  the  burrows  they  could  find,  and  the  in- 
habitants were  put  to  the — not  the  sword,  but  the  axe 
and  the  club.  Of  all  those  who  had  been  so  happy 
and  prosperous,  the  old  Beaver  and  his  wife  were  the 
only  ones  who  escaped ;  and  their  lives  were  spared  only 
because  the  Indians  failed  to  find  their  hiding-place. 

That  was  the  end  of  the  second  city,  but  it  was  not  quite 
the  end  of  the  beavers.  A  few  miles  up-stream  they  dug 
a  short  burrow  in  the  bank  and  tried  to  make  a  new  home. 
In  May  another  baby  came,  but  only  one,  and  it  was  dead 
before  it  was  born.  Next  day  the  mother  died  too,  and 
the  Beaver  left  the  burrow  and  went  out  into  the  world 
alone.  I  really  think  his  heart  was  broken,  though  it 
continued  to  beat  for  several  months  longer. 

Just  northeast  of  the  Glimmerglass  there  lies  a  long, 
narrow  pond,  whose  shores  are  very  low  and  swampy,  and 
whose  waters  drain  into  the  larger  lake  through  a  short 
stream  only  a  few  rods  in  length.  Hundreds,  perhaps 

[87] 


Forest  Neighbors 

thousands,  of  years  ago  the  narrow  strip  of  land  that 
separates  them  may  possibly  have  been  a  beaver-dam,  but 
to-day  it  is  hard  to  tell  it  from  one  of  Nature's  own  for- 
mations. In  the  course  of  his  lonely  wanderings  the 
Beaver  reached  this  pond,  and  here  he  established  himself 
to  spend  his  last  few  weeks.  He  was  aging  rapidly.  Such 
a  little  while  ago  he  had  seemed  in  the  very  prime  of  life, 
and  had  been  one  of  the  handsomest  beavers  in  the  woods, 
with  fur  of  the  thickest  and  softest  and  silkiest,  and  a 
weight  of  probably  sixty  pounds.  Now  he  was  thin  and 
lean,  his  hair  was  falling  out,  his  teeth  were  losing  their 
sharp  edges  and  becoming  blunt  and  almost  useless,  and 
even  his  flat  tail  was  growing  thicker  and  more  rounded, 
and  its  whack  was  not  as  startling  as  of  old  when  he 
brought  it  down  with  all  his  might  on  the  surface  of  the 
water. 

Yet  even  now  the  old  instinct  flamed  up  and  burned  feebly 
for  a  little  while.  Or  shall  we  say  the  old  love  of  work, 
and  of  using  the  powers  and  faculties  that  God  had  given 
him  ?  Why  should  the  thing  that  is  called  genius  in  a 
man  be  set  down  as  instinct  when  we  see  it  on  a  somewhat 
smaller  scale  in  an  animal  ?  Whatever  it  was,  the  ruling 
passion  was  still  strong.  All  his  life  he  had  been  a  civil 

[38] 


The  Biography  of  a  Beaver 

engineer;  and  now,  one  dark,  rainy  autumn  night,  he  left 
his  shallow  burrow,  swam  down  the  pond  to  its  outlet,  and 
began  to  build  a  dam.  The  next  day,  pushing  up  the 
shallow  stream  in  my  dug-out  canoe,  I  saw  the  alder-cut- 
tings lying  in  its  bed,  with  the  marks  of  his  dull  teeth  on 
their  butts.  God  knows  why  he  did  it,  or  what  he  was 
thinking  about  as  he  cut  those  bushes  and  dragged  them 
into  the  water.  I  don't ;  but  sometimes  I  wonder  if  a 
wild  dream  of  a  new  lodge,  a  new  mate,  a  new  home,  and 
a  new  city  was  flitting  through  his  poor,  befogged  old 
brain. 

It  was  only  a  few  nights  later  that  he  put  his  foot  into 
Charlie  Hoop's  beaver- trap,  jumped  for  deep  water,  and 
was  drowned  like  his  father  before  him.  Charlie  after- 
ward showed  me  the  pelt,  which  he  had  stretched  on  a 
hoop  made  of  a  little  birch  sapling.  It  was  not  a  very 
good  pelt,  for,  as  I  said,  the  Beaver  had  been  losing  his 
hair,  but  Charlie  thought  he  might  get  a  dollar  or  two 
for  it.  Whether  he  needed  the  dollar  more  than  the 
Beaver  needed  his  skin  was  a  question  which  it  seemed 
quite  useless  to  discuss. 

As  we  left  the  shack  I  noticed  the  tail  lying  on  the 
ground  just  outside  the  door. 

[39] 


Forest  Neighbors 

"  Why  don't  you  eat  it  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Don't  you  know 
that  a  beaver's  tail  is  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  finest  del- 
icacies in  the  woods  ?  " 

"  Huh ! "  said  Charlie.     "  I'd  rather  have  salt  pork." 


[40] 


THE  KING  OF  THE  TROUT  STREAM 


THE   KING   OF  THE  TROUT  STREAM 

JLT  was  winter,  and  the  trout  stream  ran  low  in  its 
banks,  hidden  from  the  sky  by  a  thick  shell  of  ice  and 
snow,  and  not  seeing  the  sun  for  a  season.  But  the 
trout  stream  was  used  to  that,  and  it  slipped  along  in 
the  darkness,  undismayed  and  not  one  whit  disheartened; 
talking  to  itself  in  low,  murmuring  tones,  and  dreaming 
of  the  time  when  spring  would  come  back  and  all  the 
rivers  would  be  full. 

Mingled  with  its  waters,  and  borne  onward  and  downward 
by  the  ceaseless  flow  of  its  current,  went  multitudes  of  the 
tiniest  air-bubbles,  most  of  them  too  small  ever  to  be  seen 
by  a  human  eye,  yet  large  enough  to  be  the  very  breath 
of  life  to  thousands  and  thousands  of  creatures.  Some  of 
them  found  their  way  to  the  gills  of  the  brook  trout,  and 
some  to  the  minnows,  and  the  herrings,  and  the  suckers, 
and  the  star-gazers ;  some  fed  the  little  Crustacea,  and  the 
insect  larvae,  and  the  other  tiny  water  animals  that  make  up 
the  lower  classes  of  society;  and  some  passed  undetained 
down  the  river  and  out  into  Lake  Superior.  But  there 

[43] 


Forest  Neighbors 

were  others  that  worked  down  into  the  gravel  of  the  river- 
bed ;  and  there,  in  the  nooks  and  crannies  between  the 
pebbles,  they  found  a  vast  number  of  little  balls  of  yellow- 
brown  jelly,  about  as  large  as  small  peas,  which  seemed  to 
be  in  need  of  their  kindly  ministrations.  And  the  air- 
bubbles  touched  the  trout  eggs  gently  and  lovingly,  and 
in  some  mysterious  and  wonderful  way  their  oxygen 
passed  in  through  the  pores  of  the  shells,  and  the  embryos 
within  were  quickened  and  stirred  to  a  new  vigor  and  a 
more  rapid  growth. 

Not  all  of  the  eggs  were  alive.  Some  had  been 
crushed  between  the  stones;  some  were  buried  in  sedi- 
ment, which  had  choked  the  pores  and  kept  away  the 
friendly  oxygen  until  they  smothered;  and  some  had 
never  really  lived  at  all.  But  one  danger  they  had  been 
spared,  for  there  were  no  saw-mills  on  the  stream  to  send 
a  flood  of  fungus-breeding  sawdust  down  with  the  cur- 
rent. And  in  spite  of  all  the  misfortunes  and  disasters 
to  which  trout  eggs  are  liable,  a  goodly  number  of 
them  were  doing  quite  as  well  as  could  be  expected.  I 
suppose  one  could  hardly  say  that  they  were  being  incu- 
bated, for,  according  to  the  dictionaries,  to  incubate  is 
to  sit  upon,  and  certainly  there  was  no  one  sitting  on 

[44] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
them.  Their  mothers  had  not  come  near  them  since  the 
day  they  were  laid.  But  the  gravel  hid  them  from  the 
eyes  of  egg-eating  fishes  and  musk-rats ;  the  water  kept 
them  cold,  but  not  too  cold ;  the  fresh  oxygen  came  and 
encouraged  them  if  ever  they  grew  tired  and  dull,  and  so 
the  good  work  went  on. 

Through  each  thin,  leathery,  semi-transparent  shell  you 
could  have  seen,  if  you  had  examined  it  closely,  a  pair 
of  bright,  beady  eyes,  and  a  dark  little  thread  of  a  back- 
bone that  was  always  curled  up  like  a  horseshoe  be- 
cause there  wasn't  room  for  it  to  lie  straight.  But 
along  the  outside  of  the  curve  of  each  spinal  column  a 
set  of  the  tiniest  and  daintiest  muscles  was  getting  ready 
for  a  long  pull,  and  a  strong  pull,  and  a  pull  all  to- 
gether. And  one  day,  late  in  the  winter,  when  the 
woods  were  just  beginning  to  think  about  spring,  the 
muscles  in  one  particular  egg  tugged  with  all  their  little 
might,  the  backbone  straightened  with  a  great  effort, 
the  shell  was  ripped  open,  and  the  tail  of  a  brand-new 
brook  trout  thrust  itself  out  into  the  water  and  wiggled 
pathetically. 

But  his  head  and  shoulders  were  still  inside,  and  for  a 
while  it  looked  as  if  he  would  never  get  them  free.  His 

[45] 


Forest  Neighbors 

tail  was  shaped  somewhat  like  a  paddle  set  on  edge,  for 
a  long,  narrow  fin  ran  from  the  middle  of  his  back  clear 
around  the  end  of  it  and  forward  again  on  the  under 
side  of  his  body,  and  with  this  for  an  oar  he  struggled 
and  writhed  and  squirmed,  and  went  bumping  blindly 
about  among  the  pebbles  like  a  kitten  with  its  head  in 
the  cream  pitcher.  And  at  last,  with  the  most  vigorous 
squirm  and  wriggle  of  all,  he  backed  clear  of  the  shell  in 
which  he  had  lain  for  so  many  weeks  and  months,  and, 
weak  and  weary  from  his  exertions,  lay  down  on  a  stone 
to  rest. 

He  had  to  lie  on  his  side,  for  attached  to  his  breast  was 
a  large,  round,  transparent  sac  which  looked  very  much 
like  the  egg  out  of  which  he  had  just  come.  In  fact  it 
really  was  the  egg,  or  at  least  a  portion  of  it,  for  it  held 
a  large  part  of  what  had  been  the  yolk.  If  you  could 
have  examined  him  with  a  microscope  you  would  have 
seen  a  most  strange  and  beautiful  thing.  His  little  body 
was  so  delicate  and  transparent  that  one  could  see  the 
arteries  pulsing  and  throbbing  in  time  with  the  beating 
of  his  heart,  and  some  of  those  arteries  found  their  way 
into  the  food-sac,  where  they  kept  branching  and  divid- 
ing, and  growing  smaller  and  more  numerous.  And  in 

[46] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
the  very  smallest  of  the  tiny  tubes  a  wonderful  process 
was  going  on — as  wonderful  as  the  way  in  which  the 
oxygen  fed  the  embryos  through  the  shell.  Somehow, 
by  life's  marvellous  alchemy,  the  blood  was  laying  hold 
of  the  material  of  the  yolk,  turning  it  into  more  blood, 
and  carrying  it  away  to  be  used  in  building  up  bone  and 
muscle  everywhere  from  the  tip  of  his  nose  to  the  end  of 
his  tail.  You  might  not  have  detected  the  actual 
transformation,  but  you  could  have  seen  the  beating  of 
the  engine,  and  the  throbbing  rush  of  the  little  red 
rivers,  all  toiling  with  might  and  main  to  make  a  big, 
strong  trout  out  of  this  weak  and  diminutive  baby. 
And  you  could  have  seen  the  corpuscles  hurrying  along 
so  thick  and  fast  that  at  times  they  blocked  up  the  pas- 
sages, and  the  current  was  checked  till  the  heart  could 
bring  enough  pressure  to  bear  to  burst  the  dam  and 
send  them  rushing  on  again.  For  the  corpuscles  of 
a  trout's  blood  are  considerably  larger  than  those  of 
most  fishes,  and  they  sometimes  get  "  hung  up,"  like  a 
drive  of  logs  sent  down  a  stream  hardly  large  enough  to 
float  it. 

With  a  full  haversack  to  be  drawn  upon  in  such  a 
convenient  manner  the  Troutlet  was  not  obliged  to  take 


Forest  Neighbors 

food  through  his  mouth  or  to  think  about  hustling 
around  in  search  of  a  living.  This  was  veiy  fortunate, 
for  the  stream  was  full  of  hungry  beasts  of  prey  who 
would  be  very  likely  to  gobble  him  up  quick  the  first 
time  he  went  abroad ;  and,  besides,  his  frail  little  body 
was  still  so  weak  and  delicate  that  he  could  not  bear  the 
light  of  day.  So,  instead  of  swimming  away  to  seek  his 
fortune,  he  simply  dived  down  deeper  into  the  gravel, 
and  stayed  there.  For  some  weeks  he  led  a  very  quiet 
life  among  the  pebbles,  and  the  only  mishap  that  befell 
him  during  that  time  was  the  direct  result  of  his  retir- 
ing disposition.  In  his  anxiety  to  get  as  far  away  from 
the  world  as  possible  he  one  day  wedged  himself  into  a 
cranny  so  narrow  that  he  couldn't  get  out  again.  He 
couldn't  even  breathe,  for  his  gill-covers  were  squeezed 
down  against  the  sides  of  his  head  as  if  he  were  in  a 
vise.  A  trout's  method  of  respiration  is  to  open  his 
mouth  and  fill  it  with  water,  and  then  to  close  it  again 
and  force  the  water  out  through  his  gills,  between  his 
cheeks  and  his  shoulders,  about  where  his  neck  would  be 
if  he  had  one.  It's  very  simple  when  you  once  know 
how,  but  you  can't  do  it  with  your  gill-covers  clamped 
down.  His  tail  wiggled  more  pathetically  than  ever, 

[48] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
and  did  its  level  best  to  pull  him  out,  but  without  suc- 
cess. He  was  wedged  in  so  tightly  that  he  couldn't 
move,  and  he  was  fast  smothering,  like  a  baby  that  has 
rolled  over  on  its  face  upon  the  pillow.  But  at  the  last 
moment,  when  his  struggles  had  grown  feebler  and 
feebler  until  they  had  almost  ceased,  something  stirred 
up  the  gravel  around  him  and  set  him  free.  He  never 
knew  what  did  it.  Perhaps  a  deer  or  a  bear  waded 
through  the  stream  ;  or  a  saw-log  may  have  grounded 
for  a  moment  in  the  shallow ;  or  possibly  it  was  only  the 
current,  for  by  this  time  most  of  the  snow  had  melted, 
and  the  little  river  was  working  night  and  day  to  carry 
the  water  out  of  the  woods.  But  whatever  it  was,  he  was 
saved. 

He  stayed  in  the  gravel  nearly  a  month,  but  his  yolk- 
sac  was  gradually  shrinking,  and  after  a  time  it  drew 
itself  up  into  a  little  cleft  in  his  breast  and  almost  disap- 
peared. There  was  nothing  left  of  it  but  a  little  amber- 
colored  bead,  and  it  could  no  longer  supply  food  enough 
for  his  growing  body.  There  were  times  when  he  felt 
decidedly  hungry.  And  other  changes  had  come  while 
he  lay  and  waited  in  the  gravel.  The  embryonic  fin 
which  had  made  his  tail  so  like  a  paddle  was  gone,  the 

[49] 


Forest  Neighbors 

true  dorsal  and  caudal  and  anal  fins  had  taken  their 
proper  shape,  and  he  looked  a  little  less  like  a  tadpole 
and  a  little  more  like  a  fish.  He  was  stronger  than  he 
had  been  at  first,  and  he  was  losing  his  dread  of  the  sun- 
light; and  so  at  last  he  left  the  gravel-bed,  to  seek  his 
rightful  place  in  the  world  of  moving,  murmuring  waters. 
He  was  rather  weak  and  listless  at  first,  and  quite 
given  to  resting  in  the  shallows  and  back  water,  and 
taking  things  as  easily  as  possible.  But  that  was  to  be 
expected  for  a  time,  and  he  was  much  better  off  than 
some  of  the  other  trout  babies.  He  saw  one  that  had 
two  heads  and  only  one  body,  and  another  with  two 
heads  and  two  bodies  joined  together  at  the  tail.  Still 
others  there  were  who  had  never  been  strong  enough  to 
straighten  their  backbones,  and  who  had  lain  in  the  egg 
till  the  shell  wore  thin  and  let  them  out  head  first,  which 
is  not  at  all  the  proper  way  for  a  trout  to  hatch.  Even 
now  they  still  retained  the  horseshoe  curve,  and  could 
never  swim  straight  ahead,  but  only  spin  round  and 
round  like  whirligigs.  These  cripples  and  weaklings 
seemed  to  have  got  on  pretty  well  as  long  as  their  food- 
sacs  lasted,  but  now  that  they  had  to  make  their  own 
living  they  were  at  a  serious  disadvantage.  They  all 

[50] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
disappeared  after  a  day  or  two,  and  our  friend  never  saw 
them  again.     They  couldn't  stand  the  real  struggle  of 
life. 

Many  a  strong,  healthy  baby  disappeared  at  the  same 
time,  and  if  there  had  not  been  so  many  of  them  it  is  not 
likely  that  any  would  have  survived  the  first  few  days  and 
weeks.  Even  as  it  was,  I  doubt  if  more  than  one  fish  out 
of  each  thousand  eggs  ever  lived  to  grow  up.  It  is  not 
difficult  to  guess  where  they  went.  Our  Trout  had  hardly 
emerged  from  his  hiding-place  in  the  gravel  when  a  queer, 
ugly,  big-headed  little  fish  darted  at  him  from  under  a 
stone,  with  his  jaws  open  and  an  awful  cavity  yawning 
behind  them.  The  Troutlet  dodged  between  a  couple  of 
pebbles  and  escaped,  but  another  youngster  just  beyond 
him  was  caught  and  swallowed  alive.  That  was  his  first 
meeting  with  the  star-gazer,  who  kills  more  babies  than 
ever  Herod  did.  Then  there  were  minnows,  and  herrings, 
and  lizards,  and  frogs,  and  weasles,  and  water-snakes,  and 
other  butchers  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  too  numerous  to  men- 
tion. And  perhaps  the  worst  of  all  were  the  older  trout, 
who  never  seemed  to  have  the  least  compunction  about 
eating  their  small  relations,  and  who  were  so  nimble  and 
lively  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  keep  out  of  their 

[51] 


Forest  Neighbors 

way.  Our  friend  spent  most  of  his  time  in  the  shallow 
water  near  the  banks,  where  larger  fishes  were  not  so 
likely  to  follow  him,  but  even  there  he  had  many  narrow 
escapes  and  was  obliged  to  keep  himself  hidden  as  much 
as  possible  under  chips  and  dead  leaves,  and  behind 
stones. 

Often  he  found  himself  in  great  peril  when  he  least 
suspected  it.  Once  he  lay  for  some  time  in  the  edge  of  a 
dark  forest  of  water-weeds,  only  an  inch  from  a  lumpish, 
stupid-looking  creature,  half  covered  with  mud,  that  was 
clinging  to  one  of  the  stems.  The  animal  appeared  so 
dull  and  unintelligent  that  the  young  Trout  paid  little 
attention  to  him  until  another  baby  came  up  and  ap- 
proached a  trifle  closer.  Then,  quick  as  a  flash,  the  creat- 
ure shot  out  an  arm  nearly  three-quarters  of  an  inch 
long,  bearing  on  its  end  two  horrible  things  which  were 
not  exactly  claws,  nor  fingers,  nor  teeth,  but  which  par- 
took of  the  nature  of  all  three,  and  which  came  together 
on  the  infant's  soft,  helpless  little  body  like  a  pair  of  tongs 
or  the  jaws  of  a  steel  trap,  and  drew  him  in  to  where  the 
real  jaws  were  waiting  to  make  mince-meat  of  him.  Our 
friend  fled  so  precipitately  that  he  did  not  see  the  end  of 
the  tragedy,  but  neither  did  he  ever  see  that  baby  again. 

[52] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
Before  the  summer  had  passed,  the  dull,  lumpish-looking 
creature  had  become  a  magnificent  insect,  with  long,  gauzy 
wings,  clad  in  glittering  mail,  and  known  to  everybody  as 
a  dragon-fly,  but  I  doubt  if  any  of  his  performances  in  the 
upper  air  were  ever  half  as  dragon-like  as  the  deeds  of 
darkness  that  he  did  when  he  was  an  ugly,  shapeless 
larva  down  under  the  water. 

Fortunately,  not  all  the  larvae  in  the  stream  were  thus 
to  be  feared.  Many  were  so  small  that  the  Troutlet  could 
eat  them,  instead  of  letting  them  eat  him;  and  nowhere 
were  they  more  plentiful  than  in  this  same  forest  of  water- 
weeds.  His  first  taste  of  food  was  a  great  experience,  and 
gave  him  some  entirely  new  ideas  of  life.  One  day  he 
was  lying  with  his  head  up-stream,  as  was  his  usual  habit, 
when  a  particularly  fat,  plump  little  larva,  torn  from  his 
home  by  the  remorseless  river,  came  drifting  down  with  the 
current.  He  looked  very  tempting,  and  our  friend  sallied 
out  from  under  a  stick  and  caught  him  on  the  fly,  just 
as  he  had  seen  the  star-gazer  catch  his  own  brother.  The 
funny  little  creature  wriggled  deliciously  on  his  tongue, 
and  he  held  him  between  his  jaws  for  a  moment  in  a  kind 
of  ecstasy;  but  he  couldn't  quite  make  up  his  mind  to 
swallow  him,  and  presently  he  spat  him  out  again  and 

[53] 


Forest  Neighbors 

went  back  to  the  shadow  of  his  stick  to  rest  and  think 
about  it.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had 
ever  done  such  a  thing,  and  he  felt  rather  overwhelmed, 
but  an  hour  or  two  later  he  tried  it  again,  and  this  time 
the  living  morsel  did  not  stop  in  his  mouth,  but  went 
straight  on  down. 

It  was  really  something  more  than  a  new  experience — 
this  first  mouthful  of  food — for  it  marked  a  turning- 
point  in  his  career.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  lived  en- 
tirely on  the  provisions  which  his  parents  had  left  him, 
but  henceforth  he  was  independent  and  could  take  care 
of  himself.  He  was  no  longer  an  embryo;  he  was  a  real 
fish,  a  genuine  Salvelinus  fontinalis,  as  carnivorous  as  the 
biggest  and  fiercest  of  all  his  relations.  The  cleft  in  his 
breast  might  close  up  now,  and  the  last  remnant  of  his 
yolk-sac  vanish  forever.  He  was  done  with  it.  He  had 
graduated  from  the  nursery,  and  had  found  his  place  on 
the  battle-field  of  life. 

It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  he  did  not  look 
much  like  a  mature  trout,  even  now.  He  was  less  than 
three-quarters  of  an  inch  long,  and  his  big  head,  bulging 
eyes,  and  capacious  mouth  were  out  of  all  proportion  to 
his  small  and  feeble  body.  But  time  and  food  were  all 

[54] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
that  was  needed  to  set  these  matters  right ;  and  now  that 
he  had  learned  how,  he  set  to  work  and  did  his  level  best. 
I  should  be  afraid  to  guess  how  many  tiny  water-creatures, 
insects  and  larvae  and  crustaceae,  found  their  way  down 
his  throat,  but  it  is  pretty  safe  to  say  that  he  often  ate 
more  than  his  own  weight  in  a  single  day.  And  so  he 
grew  in  size  and  strength  and  symmetry,  and  from  being 
a  quiet,  languid  baby,  always  hiding  in  dark  corners,  and 
attending  strictly  to  his  own  affairs,  he  became  one  of  the 
liveliest  and  most  inquisitive  little  fishes  in  all  the  stream. 
To  a  certain  extent  he  developed  a  fondness  for  travelling, 
and  in  company  with  other  troutlets  of  his  own  age  and 
size  he  often  journeyed  from  place  to  place  in  search  of 
new  surroundings  and  new  things  to  eat.  In  fly-time  he 
found  a  bountiful  food-supply  in  the  mosquitoes  and 
black-flies  that  swarmed  over  the  stream,  and  it  was  fun 
to  see  him  leap  from  the  water,  catch  one  of  them  in  his 
mouth,  and  drop  back  with  a  triumphant  little  splash. 
It  wasn't  really  very  considerate  in  him  to  prey  on  those 
biting,  stinging  flies,  for  in  after  years  they  would  be  his 
best  defenders  against  anglers  and  fishermen,  but  consid- 
eration doesn't  seem  to  be  one  of  the  strong  points  in  a 
brook  trout's  character. 

[55] 


Forest  Neighbors 

It  would  take  too  long  to  tell  of  all  his  youthful 
doings  during  the  next  year,  and  of  all  his  narrow 
escapes,  and  the  many  tight  places  that  he  got  into  and 
out  of.  It  was  a  wonder  that  he  ever  pulled  through  at 
all,  but  I  suppose  it  is  necessary  that  a  few  trout  should 
grow  up,  for,  if  they  didn't,  who  would  there  be  to  eat 
the  little  ones  ? 

.  Once  a  kingfisher  dived  for  him,  missed  him  by  a  hair's- 
breadth,  and  flew  back,  scolding  and  chattering,  to  his 
perch  on  an  old  stub  that  leaned  far  out  over  the  water. 
And  once  he  had  a  horrible  vision  of  an  immense  loon 
close  behind  him,  with  long  neck  stretched  out,  and  huge 
bill  just  ready  to  make  the  fatal  grab.  He  dodged  and 
got  away,  but  it  frightened  him  about  as  badly  as  any- 
thing can  frighten  a  creature  with  no  more  nerves  than  a 
fish.  And  many  other  such  adventures  he  had — too 
many  to  enumerate.  However,  I  don't  think  they  ever 
troubled  him  very  much  except  for  the  moment.  He 
grew  more  wary,  no  doubt,  but  he  didn't  do  much  worry- 
ing. Somehow  or  other  he  always  escaped  by  the  skin  of 
his  teeth,  and  the  next  spring  he  was  swallowing  the  new 
crop  of  young  fry  with  as  little  concern  as  his  older  rela- 
tions had  shown  in  trying  to  swallow  him.  So  far  he 

[56] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
seemed  to  be  one  of  the  few  who  are  foreordained  to  eat 
and  not  be  eaten,  though  it  was  more  than  likely  that  in 
the  end  he,  too,  would  die  a  violent  death. 

When  he  was  about  a  year  and  a  half  old  he  noticed 
that  all  the  larger  trout  in  the  stream  were  gathering  in 
places  where  the  water  was  shallow,  the  bottom  pebbly, 
and  the  current  rapid;  and  that  they  acted  as  if  they 
thought  they  had  very  important  business  on  hand.  He 
wanted  to  do  as  the  others  did,  and  so  it  happened  that 
he  went  back  again  to  the  gravelly  shallow  where  the  air- 
bubbles  had  first  found  him.  By  this  time  he  was  about 
as  large  as  your  finger,  or  possibly  a  trifle  larger,  and  he 
had  all  the  bumptiousness  of  youth  and  was  somewhat 
given  to  pushing  himself  in  where  he  wasn't  wanted. 

The  male  trout  were  the  first  to  arrive,  and  they 
promptly  set  to  work  to  prepare  nests  for  their  mates, 
who  were  expected  a  little  later.  It  was  a  simple  process. 
All  they  did  was  to  shove  the  gravel  aside  with  their 
noses  and  fins  and  tails,  and  then  fan  the  sediment  away 
until  they  had  made  nice,  clean  little  hollows  in  the  bed 
of  the  stream;  but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  excitement 
and  jealousy  over  it,  and  every  little  while  they  had  to 
stop  and  have  a  scrap.  The  biggest  and  strongest 

[57] 


Forest  Neighbors 

always  wanted  the  best  places,  and  if  they  happened  to 
take  a  fancy  for  a  location  occupied  by  a  smaller  and 
weaker  fish,  they  drove  him  out  without  ceremony  and 
took  possession  by  right  of  the  conqueror.  For  the  most 
part  their  fighting  seemed  rather  tame,  for  they  did  little 
more  than  butt  each  other  in  the  ribs  with  their  noses, 
but  once  in  a  while  they  really  got  their  dander  up  and 
bit  quite  savagely.  And  when  the  lady  trout  came  to 
inspect  the  nests  that  had  been  prepared  for  them,  then 
times  were  livelier  than  ever,  and  the  jealousy  and  rivalry 
ran  very  high,  indeed. 

Of  course  our  Trout  was  too  young  to  bear  a  very 
prominent  part  in  these  proceedings,  but  he  and  some 
companions  of  about  his  own  age  skirmished  around  the 
edges  of  the  nesting  grounds,  and  seemed  to  take  a  wicked 
delight  in  teasing  the  old  males  and  running  away  just  in 
time  to  escape  punishment.  And  when  the  nests  began 
to  be  put  to  practical  use,  the  yearlings  were  very  much 
in  evidence.  Strictly  fresh  eggs  are  as  good  eating  down 
under  the  water  as  they  are  on  land,  and,  partly  on  this 
account,  and  partly  because  direct  sunshine  is  considered 
very  injurious  to  them,  the  mothers  always  covered  them 
with  gravel  as  quickly  as  possible.  But  in  spite  of  the 

[58] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
best  of  care  the  current  was  constantly  catching  some  of 
them  and  sweeping  them  away,  and  our  young  friend 
would  creep  up  as  near  as  he  dared,  and  whenever  one  of 
the  yellow-brown  balls  came  his  way  he  would  gobble  it 
down  with  as  little  remorse  as  he  had  felt  for  his  first 
larva.  Now  and  then  an  irate  father  would  turn  upon 
him  fiercely  and  chase  him  off*,  but  in  a  few  minutes  he 
would  be  back  again,  watching  for  eggs  as  eagerly  as  ever. 
Once,  indeed,  he  had  a  rather  close  call,  for  the  biggest 
old  male  in  all  the  stream  came  after  him  with  mouth 
open  as  if  he  would  swallow  him  whole,  as  he  could  very 
easily  have  done.  Our  friend  was  almost  caught  when 
the  big  fellow  happened  to  glance  back  and  saw  another 
trout  coming  to  visit  his  wife,  and  promptly  abandoned 
the  chase  and  went  home  to  see  about  it. 

A  year  later  our  Trout  went  again  to  the  gravelly 
shallow,  and  this  time,  being  six  inches  long  and  about 
thirty  months  old,  he  decided  to  make  a  nest  of  his  own. 
He  did  so,  and  had  just  induced  a  most  beautiful  young 
fish  of  the  other  sex  to  come  and  examine  it,  with  a  view 
to  matrimony,  when  that  same  big  bully  appeared  on  the 
scene,  promptly  turned  him  out  of  house  and  home,  and 
began  courting  the  beautiful  young  creature  himself.  It 

[59] 


Forest  Neighbors 

was  very  exasperating,  not  to  say  humiliating,  but  it  was 
the  sort  of  thing  that  one  must  expect  when  one  is  only  a 
two-year-old. 

The  next  year  he  had  better  luck.  As  another  summer 
passed  away,  and  the  cooler  weather  came  on,  he  arrayed 
himself  in  his  wedding  finery,  and  it  almost  seemed  as  if 
he  had  stolen  some  of  the  colors  of  the  swamp  maples,  in 
their  gay  fall  dress,  and  was  using  them  to  deck  himself 
out  and  make  a  brave  display.  In  later  years  he  was 
larger  and  heavier,  but  I  don't  think  he  was  ever  much 
handsomer  than  he  was  in  that  fourth  autumn  of  his  life. 
His  back  was  a  dark,  dusky,  olive-green,  with  mottlings 
that  were  still  darker  and  duskier.  His  sides  were  lighter 
— in  some  places  almost  golden  yellow;  and  scattered 
irregularly  over  them  were  the  small,  bright  carmine  spots 
that  gave  him  one  of  his  aliases,  the  "  Speckled  Trout." 
Beneath  he  was  usually  of  a  pale  cream  color,  but  now  that 
he  had  put  on  his  best  clothes  his  vest  was  bright  orange, 
and  some  of  his  fins  were  variegated  with  red  and  white, 
while  others  were  a  fiery  yellow.  He  was  covered  all  over 
with  a  suit  of  armor  made  of  thousands  and  thousands  of 
tiny  scales,  so  small  and  fine  that  the  eye  could  hardly 
separate  them,  and  from  the  bony  shoulder-girdle  just  be- 

[60] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
hind  his  gills  a  raised  line,  dark  and  slightly  waving,  ran 
back  to  his  tail,  like  the  sheer-line  of  a  ship.  There  were 
other  fishes  that  were  more  slender  and  more  finely  mod- 
elled than  he,  and  possibly  more  graceful,  but  in  him 
there  was  something  besides  beauty — something  that  told 
of  power  and  speed  and  doggedness.  He  was  like  a 
man-o^-war  dressed  out  in  all  her  bunting  for  some  great 
gala  occasion,  but  still  showing  her  grim,  heavy  outlines 
beneath  her  decorations.  His  broad  mouth  opened  clear 
back  under  his  eyes,  and  was  armed  with  rows  of  back- 
ward-pointing teeth,  so  sharp  and  strong  that  when  they 
once  fastened  themselves  upon  a  smaller  fish  they  never 
let  him  go  again.  The  only  way  out  from  between  those 
jaws  was  down  his  throat.  His  eyes  were  large  and 
bright,  and  were  set  well  apart;  and  the  bulge  of  his 
forehead  between  them  hinted  at  more  brains  than  are 
allotted  to  some  of  the  people  of  the  stream.  Alto- 
gether, he  was  a  most  gallant  and  knightly  little  fish, 
and  it  would  certainly  have  been  a  pity  if  he  hadn^t 
found  a  mate. 

And  now  he  started  the  third  time  for  the  gravelly 
shallow,  and  travelled  as  he  had  never  travelled  before  in 
all  his  life.  Streams  are  made  to  swim  against — every 

[61] 


Forest  Neighbors 

brook  trout  knows  that — and .  the  faster  they  run,  the 
greater  is  the  joy  of  breasting  them.  The  higher  the 
water-fall,  the  prouder  do  you  feel  when  you  find  you  can 
leap  it.  And  our  friend  was  in  a  mood  for  swimming, 
and  for  swimming  with  all  his  might.  Never  had  he  felt 
so  strong  and  vigorous  and  so  full  of  life  and  energy,  and 
he  made  his  fins  and  his  tail  go  like  the  oars  of  a  racing- 
shell.  Now  he  was  working  up  the  swift  current  of  a 
long  rapid  like  a  bird  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind.  Now  he 
was  gathering  all  his  strength  for  the  great  leap  to  the 
top  of  the  water- fall.  And  now,  perhaps,  he  rested  for  a 
little  while  in  a  quiet  pool,  and  presently  went  hurrying 
on  again,  diving  under  logs  and  fallen  trees,  swinging 
round  the  curves,  darting  up  the  still  places  where  the 
water  lay  a-dreaming,  and  wriggling  over  shallow  bars 
where  it  was  not  half  deep  enough  to  cover  him  ;  until  at 
last  he  reached  the  old  familiar  place  where  so  many  gen- 
erations of  brook  trout  had  first  seen  the  light  of  day 
and  felt  the  cold  touch  of  the  snow-water. 

As  before,  he  and  the  other  males  arrived  at  the  nesting 
grounds  some  days  in  advance  of  their  mates,  and  spent 
the  intervening  time  in  scooping  hollows  in  the  gravel 
and  quarrelling  among  themselves.  Two  or  three  times 

[62] 


Nesting  Grounds. 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
he  was  driven  from  a  choice  location  by  someone  who 
was  bigger  than  he,  but  he  always  managed  in  some  way 
to  regain  it,  or  else  stole  another  from  a  smaller  fish ; 
and  when  the  ladies  finally  appeared  he  had  a  fine  large 
nest  in  a  pleasant  situation  a  little  apart  from  those  of 
his  rivals.  But  for  some  reason  the  first  candidates  who 
came  to  look  at  it  declined  to  stay.  Perhaps  they  were 
not  quite  ready  to  settle  down,  or  perhaps  they  were 
merely  disposed  to  insist  on  the  feminine  privilege  of 
changing  their  minds.  But  finally  there  came  one  who 
seemed  to  be  quite  satisfied,  and  with  whom  the  Trout 
himself  had  every  reason  to  be  pleased. 

She  was  not  a  native  of  the  stream,  but  of  one  of  the 
hatcheries  of  the  Michigan  Fish  Commission ;  and  while 
he  was  lying  in  the  gravel  she  was  one  of  a  vast  company 
inhabiting  a  number  of  black  wooden  troughs  that  stood 
in  a  large,  pleasant  room  filled  with  the  sound  of  running 
water.  Here  there  were  no  yearlings  nor  musk-rats  nor 
saw-bill  ducks  looking  for  fresh  eggs,  nor  any  dragons 
nor  star-gazers  lying  in  wait  for  the  young  fry.  Instead 
there  were  nice,  kind  men,  who  kept  the  hatching  troughs 
clean  and  the  water  at  the  right  temperature,  and  who 
gently  stirred  up  the  troutlets  with  a  long  goose-feather 

[63] 


Forest  Neighbors 

whenever  too  many  of  them  crowded  together  in  one 
corner,  trying  to  get  away  from  the  hateful  light.  Under 
this  sort  of  treatment  most  of  the  thirty  million  babies 
in  the  hatchery  lived  and  thrived.  Only  a  few  thousands 
of  them  were  brook  trout,  but  among  those  thousands 
one  of  the  smartest  and  most  precocious  was  the  one  in 
whom  we  are  just  now  most  interested.  She  was  always 
first  into  the  dark  corners,  as  long  as  dark  corners  seemed 
desirable ;  and  later,  when  they  began  to  come  up  into  the 
light  and  partake  of  the  pulverized  beef-liver  which  their 
attendants  offered  them,  there  was  no  better  swimmer  or 
more  voracious  feeder  than  she.  All  this  was  especially 
fortunate  because  there  was  a  very  hard  and  trying  ex- 
perience before  her — one  in  which  she  would  have  need 
of  all  her  strength  and  vitality,  and  in  which  her  chances 
of  life  would  be  very  small,  indeed.  It  came  with  plant- 
ing time,  when  she  and  a  host  of  her  companions  were 
whisked  through  a  rubber  tube  and  deposited  in  a  big 
can  made  of  galvanized  iron,  in  which  they  were  borne 
away  to  the  trout  stream.  The  journey  was  a  long  one, 
they  were  pretty  badly  cramped  for  room,  and  before 
they  reached  their  destination  the  supply  of  oxygen  in 
the  water  became  exhausted.  The  baby  trout  began  to 

[64] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
think  they  had  blown  out  the  gas,  and  they  all  crowded 
to  the  surface,  where,  if  anywhere,  the  minute  bubbles 
that  keep  one  alive  are  to  be  found.  They  gulped  down 
great  mouthfuls  of  water  and  forced  it  out  through  their 
gills  as  fast  as  ever  they  could,  but,  somehow,  all  the  life 
seemed  to  be  gone  out  of  it,  and  it  did  them  no  good 
whatever.  Pretty  soon  a  few  turned  over  on  their  backs 
and  died,  and  every  last  one  of  them  would  have  suffo- 
cated if  the  man  who  had  charge  of  the  party  hadn't  no- 
ticed what  was  going  on  and  come  to  the  rescue.  Pick- 
ing up  a  dipperful  of  water  and  troutlets,  and  holding  it 
high  in  the  air,  he  poured  it  back  into  the  can  with  much 
dashing  and  splashing.  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  tiny 
bubbles  were  caught  in  the  rush  and  carried  down  to  the 
bottom,  and  so  the  oxygen  came  back  again  to  the  tired 
gills,  and  the  danger  was  over. 

The  emigrants  reached  the  trout  stream  at  last,  and 
one  would  have  supposed  that  their  troubles  were  ended. 
In  reality  the  chapter  of  trials  and  tribulations  had  only 
just  begun,  for  the  same  fishes  and  frogs  and  lizards  that 
had  so  persecuted  our  friend  and  his  brothers  and  sisters 
were  on  hand  to  welcome  the  new  arrivals,  and  very  few 
escaped.  And  so,  in  spite  of  its  quiet  beginnings  in  the 

[65] 


Forest  Neighbors 

peaceful  surroundings  of  the  hatchery,  this  young  lady 
trout's  life  proved  quite  as  exciting  and  adventurous  as 
our  friend's,  and  it  is  possible  that  the  good  care  which 
she  received  during  her  early  infancy  really  served  to 
make  things  all  the  harder  for  her  when  she  came  to  be 
thrown  entirely  on  her  own  resources.  The  mere  change 
in  the  temperature  of  the  water  when  she  was  turned  out 
of  the  can  was  quite  a  shock  to  her  nervous  system ;  and, 
whereas  most  trout  are  somewhat  acquainted  with  the 
dangers  and  hardships  of  the  stream,  almost  from  the 
time  they  rip  their  shells  open,  she  did  not  even  know 
that  there  was  such  a  place  until  she  was  set  down  in  it 
and  told  to  shift  for  herself. 

However,  by  dint  of  strength,  speed,  agility,  and  good 
judgment  in  selecting  hiding-places  —  and  also,  in  all 
probability,  by  a  run  of  remarkably  good  luck  —  she 
made  her  way  unharmed  through  all  the  perils  of  baby- 
hood and  early  youth,  and  now  she  was  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  little  three-year-old  pirates  that  ever  swooped 
down  upon  a  helpless  victim. 

As  she  and  our  friend  swam  side  by  side,  her  nose  and 
the  end  of  her  tail  were  exactly  even  with  his.  Her 
colors  were  the  same  that  he  had  worn  before  he  put  on 

[66] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
his  wedding  garments,  and  if  you  had  seen  them  together 
in  the  early  summer  I  don't  believe  you  could  ever  have 
told  them  apart.  They  were  a  well-matched  pair,  more 
evenly  mated,  probably,  than  is  usual  in  fish  mar- 
riages. 

But  they  were  not  to  be  allowed  to  set  up  housekeep- 
ing together  without  fighting  for  the  privilege.  Hardly 
had  she  finished  inspecting  the  nest,  and  made  up  her 
mind  that  it  would  answer,  and  that  he  was,  on  the 
whole,  quite  eligible  as  a  husband,  when  a  third  trout 
appeared  and  attempted  to  do  as  the  big  bully  had  done 
the  year  before.  This  time,  however,  our  young  friend's 
blood  was  up,  and,  though  the  enemy  was  considerably 
larger  than  he,  he  was  ready  to  strike  for  his  altars  and 
his  fires.  He  made  a  quick  rush,  like  a  torpedo-boat 
attacking  a  man-of-war,  and  hit  the  intruder  amidships, 
ramming  him  with  all  his  might.  Then  the  enemy 
made  as  sudden  a  turn,  and  gave  our  Trout  a  poke  in 
the  ribs,  and  for  a  few  minutes  they  dodged  back  and 
forth,  and  round  and  round,  and  over  and  under  each 
other,  each  getting  in  a  punch  whenever  he  had  a 
chance.  So  far  it  seemed  only  a  trial  of  strength  and 
speed  and  dexterity,  and  if  our  Trout  was  not  quite  as 

[67] 


Forest  Neighbors 

large  and  powerful  as  the  other,  yet  he  proved  himself 
the  quicker  and  the  more  agile  and  lively.  But  before 
it  was  over  he  did  more  than  that,  for,  suddenly  ranging 
up  on  the  enemy's  starboard  quarter,  he  opened  his 
mouth,  and  the  sharp  teeth  of  his  lower  jaw  tore  a  row 
of  bright  scales  from  his  adversary's  side,  and  left  a  long, 
deep  gash  behind.  That  settled  it.  The  big  fellow  lit 
out  as  fast  as  he  could  go,  and  our  Trout  was  left  in  un- 
disputed possession. 

The  nesting  season  cannot  last  forever,  and  by  and  by, 
when  the  days  were  very  short  and  the  nights  were 
very  long,  when  the  stars  were  bright,  and  when  each 
sunrise  found  the  hoar-frost  lying  thick  and  heavy  on 
the  dead  and  fallen  leaves,  the  last  trout  went  in  search 
of  better  feeding  grounds,  and  again  the  gravelly 
shallow  seemed  deserted.  But  it  was  only  seeming. 
There  were  no  eggs  in  sight — the  frogs,  the  rats,  the 
ducks,  and  the  yearlings  had  taken  care  of  that,  and  I 
am  very  much  afraid  that  our  friend  may  have  eaten  a 
few  himself,  on  the  sly,  when  his  wife  wasn't  looking — 
but  hidden  away  among  the  pebbles  there  were  thou- 
sands, and  the  old,  old  miracle  was  being  re-enacted,  and 
multitudes  of  little  live  creatures  were  getting  ready  for 

[68] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
the  time  when  something  should  tell  them  to  tear  their 
shells  open  and  come  out  into  the  world. 

One  of  the  Trout's  most  remarkable  adventures,  and 
the  one  which  probably  taught  him  more  than  any  other, 
came  during  the  hot  weather  of  the  following  summer. 
The  stream  had  grown  rather  too  warm  for  comfort,  and 
lately  he  had  got  into  the  habit  of  frequenting  certain 
deep,  quiet  pools  where  icy  springs  bubbled  out  of  the 
banks  and  imparted  a  very  grateful  coolness  to  the  slow 
current.  It  was  delightful  to  spend  a  long  July  after- 
noon in  the  wash  below  one  of  these  fountains,  having  a 
lazy,  pleasant  time,  and  enjoying  the  touch  of  the  cold 
water  as  it  went  sliding  along  his  body  from  nose 
to  tail.  One  sunshiny  day,  as  he  lay  in  his  favorite 
spring-hole,  thinking  about  nothing  in  particular,  and 
just  working  his  fins  enough  to  keep  from  drifting  down 
stream,  a  fly  lit  on  the  surface  just  over  his  head — a 
bright,  gayly  colored  fly  of  a  species  which  was  entirely 
new  to  him,  but  which  looked  as  if  it  must  be  very 
finely  flavored.  As  it  happened,  there  had  been  several 
days  of  very  warm,  sultry  weather,  and  even  the  fish 
had  grown  sullen  and  lazy,  but  this  afternoon  the  wind 
had  whipped  around  to  the  north,  straight  off  Lake  Su- 

[69] 


Forest  Neighbors 

perior,  and  all  the  animals  in  the  Great  Tahquamenon 
Swamp  felt  as  if  they  had  been  made  over  new.  How 
the  brook  trout  could  have  known  of  it  so  quickly,  down 
under  the  water,  is  a  mystery;  but  our  friend  seemed 
to  wake  up  all  of  a  sudden,  and  to  realize  that  he  hadn't 
been  eating  as  much  as  usual,  and  that  he  was  hungry. 
He  made  a  dash  at  the  fly  and  seized  it,  but  he  had  no 
sooner  got  it  between  his  lips  than  he  spat  it  out  again. 
There  was  something  wrong  with  it.  Instead  of  being 
soft  and  juicy  and  luscious,  as  all  flies  ought  to  be,  it 
was  stiff,  and  dry,  and  hard,  and  it  had  a  long,  crooked 
stinger  that  was  different  from  anything  belonging  to 
any  other  fly  that  he  had  ever  tasted.  It  disappeared  as 
suddenly  as  it  had  come,  and  the  Trout  sank  back  to  the 
bottom  of  the  pool. 

But  presently  three  more  flies  came  down  together, 
and  lit  in  a  row,  one  behind  another.  They  were  differ- 
ent from  the  first,  and  he  decided  to  try  again.  He 
chose  the  foremost  of  the  three,  and  found  it  quite  as  ill- 
tasting  as  the  other  had  been ;  but  this  time  he  didn't 
spit  it  out,  for  the  stinger  was  a  little  too  quick  for  him, 
and  before  he  could  let  go  it  was  fast  in  his  lip.  For  the 
next  few  minutes  he  tore  around  the  pool  as  if  he  was 

[70] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
crazy,  frightening  some  of  the  smaller  fishes  almost  out 
of  their  wits,  and  sending  them  rushing  up-stream  in  a 
panic.  He  himself  had  more  than  once  been  badly 
scared  by  seeing  other  trout  do  just  what  he  was  doing, 
but  he  had  never  realized  what  it  all  meant.  Now  he 
understood. 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  go  shooting  along  the 
surface  for  several  feet,  throwing  his  head  from  side  to 
side  as  he  went,  and  doing  his  best  to  shake  that  horrible 
fly  out  of  his  mouth.  But  it  wouldn't  shake,  so  he  tried 
jumping  out  of  the  water  and  striking  at  the  line  with 
his  tail.  That  wasn't  any  better,  and  next  he  rushed  off 
up  the  stream  as  hard  as  he  could  go.  But  the  line  kept 
pulling  him  round  to  the  left  with  gentle  but  irresistible 
force,  and  before  he  knew  it  he  was  back  in  the  pool 
again.  Wherever  he  went,  and  whatever  he  did,  it  was 
always  pulling,  pulling,  pulling — not  hard  enough  to 
tear  the  hook  away,  but  just  enough  to  keep  him  from 
getting  an  inch  of  slack.  If  there  had  been  any  chance 
to  jerk  he  would  probably  have  got  loose  in  short  order. 
He  rushed  around  the  pool  so  hard  that  he  soon  grew 
weary,  and  presently  he  sank  to  the  bottom,  hoping  to 
lie  still  for  a  few  minutes,  and  rest,  and  perhaps  think  of 

[71] 


Forest  Neighbors 

some  new  way  of  escape.  But  even  there  that  steady 
tugging  never  ceased.  It  seemed  as  if  it  would  pull  his 
jaw  out  of  his  head  if  he  didn't  yield,  and  before  long  he 
let  himself  be  drawn  up  again  to  the  surface.  Once  he 
was  so  close  to  the  shore  that  the  angler  made  a  thrust 
at  him  with  the  landing-net,  and  just  grazed  his  side. 
It  frightened  him  worse  than  ever,  and  he  raced  away 
again  so  fast  that  the  reel  sang,  and  the  line  swished 
through  the  water  like  a  knife. 

The  other  two  flies  were  trailing  behind,  and  the  short 
line  that  held  them  was  constantly  catching  on  his  fins 
and  twisting  itself  around  his  tail  in  a  way  that  annoyed 
him  greatly.  He  almost  thought  he  could  get  away  if 
they  were  not  there  to  hinder  him.  And  yet,  as  it  finally 
turned  out,  it  was  one  of  those  flies  that  saved  his  life. 
He  was  coming  slowly  back  from  that  last  unsuccessful 
rush  for  liberty,  fighting  for  every  inch,  and  only  yield- 
ing to  a  strength  a  thousand  times  greater  than  his  own, 
when  the  trailer  caught  on  a  sunken  log  and  held  fast. 
Instantly  the  strain  on  his  mouth  relaxed.  The  angler 
was  no  longer  pulling  on  him,  but  on  the  log.  He  could 
jerk  now,  and  he  immediately  began  to  twitch  his  head 
this  way  and  that,  backward  and  forward,  right  and  left, 

[72] 


"  He  tried  jumping  out  of  the  water." 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
tearing  the  hole  in  his  lip  a  little  larger  at  every  yank, 
until  the  hook  came  away  and  he  was  free. 

It  was  a  painful  experience,  and  he  carried  the  scar  as 
long  as  he  lived,  but  the  lesson  he  learned  was  worth  all 
it  cost.  I  won't  say  that  he  never  touched  bait  again, 
but  he  was  much  more  cautious,  and  no  other  artificial 
fly  ever  stung  him  as  badly  as  that  one. 

The  years  went  by,  and  the  Trout  increased  in  size 
and  strength  and  wisdom,  as  a  trout  should.  One  after 
another  his  rivals  went  away  to  the  happy  hunting- 
grounds,  most  of  them  losing  their  lives  because  they 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  taste  a  made-up  fly,  or 
to  swallow  a  luscious  angle-worm  festooned  on  a  dainty 
little  steel  hook;  and  the  number  of  fish  who  dared  dis- 
pute his  right  to  do  whatever  he  pleased  grew  beautifully 
less.  And  at  last  there  was  only  one  trout  left  in  all  the 
stream  who  was  larger  and  stronger  than  he.  That  was 
the  same  big  fellow  who  had  come  so  near  swallowing 
him  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit  to  the  nesting- 
grounds  ;  and  the  way  the  fierce,  solemn  old  brute  finally 
departed  this  life  deserves  a  paragraph  all  to  itself. 

It  happened  one  morning  in  early  spring,  just  after  the 
ice  had  gone  out.  Our  friend  was  still  a  trifle  sleepy  and 

[73] 


Forest  Neighbors 

lazy  after  the  long,  dull  winter,  though  he  had  an  eye 
open,  as  always,  for  anything  particularly  good  to  eat.  I 
doubt  if  he  would  have  jumped  at  any  kind  of  a  fly,  for 
it  was  not  the  right  time  of  year  for  flies,  and  he  did  not 
believe  in  eating  them  out  of  season ;  but  almost  any- 
thing else  was  welcome.  He  was  faring  very  well  that 
morning,  as  it  chanced,  for  the  stream  was  running  high, 
and  many  a  delicious  grub  and  earthworm  had  been 
swept  into  it  by  the  melting  snow.  And  presently,  what 
should  come  drifting  down  with  the  current  but  a  poor 
little  field-mouse,  struggling  desperately  in  a  vain  effort 
to  swim  back  to  the  shore.  Once  before  our  friend  had 
swallowed  a  mouse  whole,  just  as  you  would  take  an 
oyster  from  the  half-shell,  and  he  knew  that  they  were 
very  nice,  indeed.  He  made  a  rush  for  the  unlucky  little 
animal,  and  in  another  second  he  would  have  had  him ; 
but  just  then  the  big  bully  came  swaggering  up  with  an 
air  which  seemed  to  say :  "  That's  my  meat.  You  get 
out  of  this  ! " 

Our  friend  obeyed,  the  big  fellow  gave  a  leap  and  seized 
the  mouse,  and  then — his  time  had  come.  He  fought 
bravely,  but  he  was  fairly  hooked,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
he  lay  out  on  the  bank,  gasping  for  breath,  flopping 

[74] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
wildly  about,  and  fouling  his  beautiful  sides  with  sand 
and  dirt.  If  he  had  understood  English  he  might  have 
overheard  an  argument  which  immediately  took  place 
between  the  angler  and  a  girl,  and  which  began  something 
like  this : 

"  There  !  "  in  a  triumphant  tone ;  "  who  says  mice 
aren't  good  bait  ?  This  is  the  biggest  trout  that's  been 
caught  in  this  stream  for  years." 

"Oh,  George,  don't  kill  him!  He's  so  pretty!  Put 
him  back  in  the  water." 

"  Put  him  back  in  the  water  ?  Well,  I  should  say 
not !  What  do  you  take  me  for  ?  " 

Evidently  the  girl  took  him  for  one  who  could  be  easily 
influenced  by  the  right  person,  for  she  kept  up  the  argu- 
ment, and  in  the  end  she  won  her  case.  The  trout  was 
tossed  back  into  the  stream,  where  he  gave  himself  a 
shake  or  two,  to  get  rid  of  the  sand,  and  then  swam 
away,  apparently  as  well  as  ever.  But  girls  don't  always 
know  what  is  good  for  trout.  It  would  really  have  been 
kinder  if  the  angler  had  hit  him  over  the  head  with  the 
butt  of  his  fishing-rod,  and  then  earned  him  home  and 
put  him  in  the  frying-pan.  In  his  struggles  a  part  of  the 
mucus  had  been  rubbed  from  his  body,  and  that  always 

[75] 


Forest  Neighbors 

means  trouble  for  a  fish.  A  few  days  later  our  friend 
met  him  again,  and  noticed  that  a  curious  growth  had 
appeared  on  his  back  and  sides — a  growth  which  bore  a 
faint  resemblance  to  the  bloom  on  a  peach,  and  which 
had  taken  the  exact  shape  of  the  prints  of  the  angler's 
fingers.  The  fungus  had  got  him.  He  was  dying,  slowly 
but  surely,  and  within  a  week  he  turned  over  on  his  back 
and  drifted  away  down  the  stream.  A  black  bear  found 
him  whirling  round  and  round  in  a  little  eddy  under  the 
bank,  and  that  was  the  end  of  him. 

And  so  our  friend  became  the  King  of  the  Trout 
Stream. 

You  are  not  to  suppose,  however,  that  he  paid  very 
much  attention  to  his  subjects,  or  that  he  was  particularly 
fond  of  having  them  about  him  and  giving  them  orders. 
On  the  contrary,  he  had  become  very  hermit-like  in  his 
habits.  In  his  youth  he  had  been  fond  of  society,  and  he 
and  his  companions  had  often  roamed  the  stream  in  little 
schools  and  bands,  but  of  late  years  his  tastes  seemed  to 
have  undergone  a  change,  and  he  kept  to  himself  and 
lurked  in  the  shady,  sunless  places  till  his  skin  grew 
darker  and  darker,  and  he  more  and  more  resembled  the 
shadows  in  which  he  lived.  His  great  delight  was  to 

[76] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
watch  from  the  depths  of  some  cave-like  hollow  under  an 
overhanging  bank  until  a  star-gazer,  or  a  herring,  or  a 
minnow,  or  some  other  baby-eater  came  in  sight,  and 
then  to  rush  out  and  swallow  him  head  first.  He  took 
ample  revenge  on  all  those  pesky  little  fishes  for  all  that 
they  had  done  and  tried  to  do  to  him  and  his  brethren 
in  the  early  days.  The  truth  is  that  every  brook  trout 
is  an  Ishmaelite.  The  hand  of  every  creature  is  against 
him,  from  that  of  the  dragon-fly  larva  to  that  of  the  man 
with  the  latest  invention  in  the  way  of  patent  fishing- 
tackle.  It  is  no  wonder  if  he  turns  the  tables  on  his 
enemies  whenever  he  has  a  chance,  or  even  if  he  some- 
times goes  so  far,  in  his  general  ruthlessness,  as  to  eat  his 
own  offspring. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  our  friend's  moroseness  and  solitary 
habits,  there  were  certain  times  and  seasons  when  he  did 
come  more  or  less  in  contact  with  his  inferiors.  In  late 
spring  and  early  summer  he  liked  to  sport  for  a  while  in 
the  swift  rapids — perhaps  to  stretch  his  muscles  after 
the  dull,  quiet  life  of  the  winter-time,  or  possibly  to 
free  himself  from  certain  little  insects  which  sometimes 
fastened  themselves  to  his  body,  and  which,  for  lack  of 
hands,  it  was  rather  difficult  to  get  rid  of.  Here  he 

[77] 


Forest  Neighbors 

often  met  some  of  his  subjects,  and  later,  when  the  hot 
weather  came  on,  they  all  went  to  the  spring-holes  which 
formed  their  summer  resorts.  And  at  such  times  he 
never  hesitated  to  take  advantage  of  his  superior  size  and 
strength.  He  always  picked  out  the  coolest  and  most 
comfortable  places  in  the  pools,  and  helped  himself  to  the 
choicest  morsels  of  food ;  and  the  others  took  what  was 
left,  without  question.  And  when  the  summer  was  gone, 
and  the  water  grew  cold  and  invigorating,  and  once  more 
he  put  on  his  wedding-garment  and  hurried  away  to  the 
gravelly  shallows,  how  different  was  his  conduct  from 
what  it  had  been  when  he  was  a  yearling !  Then  he  was 
only  a  hanger-on  ;  now  he  selected  his  nest  and  his  mate 
to  suit  himself;  and  nobody  ever  dared  to  interfere. 
Whether  he  ever  again  chose  that  beautiful  little  fish 
from  the  hatchery,  whom  he  had  been  so  fond  of  when  he 
was  a  three-year-old,  is  a  question  which  I  would  rather 
not  try  to  answer.  Among  all  the  vicissitudes,  dangers, 
and  rivalries  of  life  in  a  trout  stream,  a  permanent  mar- 
riage seems  to  be  almost  an  impossibility ;  and  I  fear 
that  the  affections  of  a  fish  are  not  remarkable  for  depth 
or  constancy. 

The  Trout  had  altered  in  many  ways  besides  his  rela- 
[78] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
tions  to  his  fellows.  The  curving  lines  of  his  body  were 
not  quite  as  graceful  as  they  had  once  been,  and  some- 
times he  wore  a  rather  lean  and  dilapidated  look,  espe- 
cially in  the  six  months  from  November  to  May.  His 
tail  was  not  as  handsomely  forked  as  when  he  was  young, 
but  was  nearly  square  across  the  end,  and  was  beginning 
to  be  a  little  frayed  at  the  corners.  His  lower  jaw  had 
grown  out  beyond  the  upper,  and  its  extremity  was 
turned  up  in  a  wicked-looking  hook  which  was  almost  a 
disfigurement,  but  which  he  often  found  very  useful  in 
hustling  a  younger  trout  out  of  the  way.  Even  his  com- 
plexion had  grown  darker,  as  we  have  already  seen.  Al- 
together he  was  less  prepossessing  than  of  old,  but  of 
a  much  more  formidable  appearance,  and  the  very  look 
of  him  was  enough  to  scare  a  minnow  out  of  a  year's 
growth. 

But,  notwithstanding  all  changes,  the  two  great  inter- 
ests of  his  every-day  life  continued  to  be  just  what  they 
had  always  been — namely,  to  get  enough  to  eat,  and  to 
keep  out  of  the  way  of  his  enemies ;  for  enemies  he  still 
had,  and  would  have  as  long  as  he  lived.  The  fly-fisher- 
men, with  their  feather-weight  rods  and  their  scientific 
tackle,  came  every  spring  and  summer ;  and  only  the  wis- 

[79] 


Forest  Neighbors 

dom  born  of  experience  kept  him  from  falling  into  their 
hands.  Several  times  he  met  with  an  otter,  and  had  to 
run  for  his  life.  Once,  a  black  bear,  fishing  for  suckers, 
came  near  catching  a  brook  trout.  And  perhaps  the 
very  closest  of  all  his  close  calls  came  one  day  when  some 
river-drivers  exploded  a  stick  of  dynamite  in  the  water  to 
break  up  a  log-jam.  The  trout  was  some  distance  up 
the  stream  at  the  time,  but  the  concussion  stunned  him 
so  that  he  floated  at  the  surface,  wrong  side  up,  for 
several  minutes  before  his  senses  gradually  came  back. 
That  is  a  fish's  way  of  fainting. 

His  luck  stayed  by  him,  however,  and  none  of  these 
things  ever  did  him  any  serious  harm.  His  reign  proved 
a  long  one,  and  as  the  years  went  by  he  came  to  exercise 
a  more  and  more  autocratic  sway  over  the  smaller  fry. 
For  in  spite  of  his  age  he  was  still  growing.  A  trout 
has  an  advantage  over  a  land  animal  in  this,  that  he  is 
not  obliged  to  use  any  of  his  food  as  fuel  for  keeping 
himself  warm.  He  can't  keep  warm  anyhow — not  as 
long  as  he  lives  in  the  water — and  so  he  doesn't  try,  but 
devotes  everything  he  eats  to  enlarging  his  body  and  re- 
pairing wear  and  tear.  If  nothing  happens  to  put  a 
stop  to  the  process,  he  seems  to  be  able  to  keep  it  up 

[80] 


The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream 
almost  indefinitely.  But  the  size  of  the  stream  in  which 
he  lives  appears  to  limit  him  to  a  certain  extent.  Proba- 
bly the  largest  trout  stream  in  the  world  is  the  Nepigon, 
and  they  say  that  seventeen-pounders  were  caught  there 
in  the  early  days.  Our  friend's  native  river  was  a  rather 
small  one.  In  the  course  of  time,  however,  he  attained 
a  weight  of  very  nearly  three  pounds,  and  I  doubt  if  he 
would  ever  have  been  much  larger.  Perhaps  it  was  fit- 
ting that  his  reign  should  end  there. 

But  it  seems  a  great  pity  that  it  could  not  have 
ended  in  a  more  imposing  manner.  The  last  act  of  the 
drama  was  so  inglorious  that  I  am  almost  ashamed  to 
tell  it.  He  was  the  King  of  the  Trout  Stream ;  over 
and  over  he  had  run  Fate's  gauntlet,  and  escaped  with  his 
body  unharmed  and  his  wits  sharper  than  ever ;  he  knew 
the  wiles  of  the  fly-fishermen  better  than  any  other  trout 
in  the  river ;  and  yet,  alas !  he  fell  a  victim  to  a  little 
Indian  boy  with  a  piece  of  edging  for  a  rod,  coarse  string 
for  a  line,  and  salt  pork  for  bait. 

I'm  sure  it  wouldn't  have  happened  if  he  had  stayed  at 
home ;  but  one  spring  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  go 
on  an  exploring  expedition  out  into  Lake  Superior.  I 
understand  that  his  cousins  in  the  streams  of  eastern 

[81J 


Forest  Neighbors 

Canada  sometimes  visit  salt  water  in  somewhat  the  same 
manner,  and  that  they  thereupon  lose  the  bright  trim- 
mings of  their  coats  and  become  a  plain  silver-gray. 
Superior  did  not  affect  our  friend  in  that  way,  but  some- 
thing worse  happened  to  him — he  lost  his  common -sense. 
Perhaps  his  interest  in  his  new  surroundings  was  so  great 
that  he  forgot  the  lessons  of  wisdom  and  experience 
which  it  had  cost  him  so  much  to  learn. 

In  the  course  of  his  wanderings  he  came  to  where  a 
school  of  perch  were  loafing  in  the  shadow  of  a  wharf; 
and  just  as  he  pushed  his  way  in  among  them;  that  little 
white  piece  of  fat  pork  sank  slowly  down  through  the 
green  water.  It  was  something  new  to  the  trout;  he 
didn't  quite  know  what  to  make  of  it.  But  the  perch 
seemed  to  think  it  was  good,  and  they  would  be  sure  to 
eat  it  if  he  didn't ;  and  so,  although  the  string  was  in 
plain  sight  and  ought  to  have  been  a  sufficient  warning, 
he  exercised  his  royal  prerogative,  shouldered  those  yel- 
low-barred plebeians  out  of  the  way,  and  took  the  tid-bit 
for  himself.  It  is  too  humiliating ;  let  us  draw  a  veil 
over  that  closing  scene. 

The  King  of  the  Trout  Stream  had  gone  the  way  of 
his  fathers,  and  another  reigned  in  his  stead. 

[82] 


THE    STRENUOUS    LIFE    OF    A 
CANADA  LYNX 


THE  STRENUOUS  LIFE  OF  A  CANADA  LYNX 

JL  HE  Canada  lynx  came  down  the  runway  that  follows 
the  high  bank  along  the  northern  shore  of  the  Glimmer- 
glass,  his  keen,  silvery  eyes  watching  the  woods  for  foe  or 
prey,  and  his  big  feet  padding  softly  on  the  dead  leaves. 
He  was  old,  was  the  Canada  lynx,  and  he  had  grown  very 
tall  and  gaunt,  but  this  afternoon  his  years  sat  lightly  on 
him.  And  in  a  moment  more  they  had  vanished  en- 
tirely, and  he  was  as  young  as  ever  he  was  in  his  life,  for, 
as  he  stepped  cautiously  around  a  little  spruce,  he  came 
upon  another  lynx,  nearly  as  tall  as  he,  and  quite-  as 
handsome  in  her  early  winter  coat.  They  both  stopped 
short  and  stared.  And  no  wonder.  Each  of  them  was 
decidedly  worth  looking  at,  especially  if  the  one  who 
did  the  looking  happened  to  be  another  lynx  of  the 
opposite  sex. 

He  was  some  twenty-odd  inches  in  height  and  about 
three  and  a  half  feet  in  length,  and  had  a  most  villanous 
cast  of  countenance,  a  very  wicked-looking  set  of  teeth, 
and  claws  that  were  two  inches  long  and  so  heavy  and 

[85] 


Forest  Neighbors 

strong  and  sharp  that  you  could  sometimes  hear  them 
crunch  into  the  bark  when  he  climbed  a  tree.  His  long 
hind  legs,  heavy  buttocks,  thick  fore-limbs,  and  big, 
clumsy-looking  paws  told  of  a  magnificent  set  of  mus- 
cles pulling  and  sliding  and  hauling  under  his  cloak. 
She  was  nearly  as  large  as  he,  and  very  much  like  him  in 
general  appearance.  Both  of  them  wore  long,  thick  fur, 
of  a  lustrous  steel-gray  color,  with  paler  shades  under- 
neath, and  darker  trimmings  along  their  back-bones  and 
up  and  down  their  legs.  Their  paws  were  big  and  broad 
and  furry,  their  tails  were  stubby  and  short,  and  they 
wore  heavy,  grizzled  whiskers  on  the  sides  of  their  jaws 
and  mustachios  under  their  noses,  while  from  the  tips 
of  their  ears  rose  tassels  of  stiff,  dark  hairs  that  had  an 
uncommonly  jaunty  effect.  Altogether  they  looked  very 
fierce  and  imposing  and  war-like — perhaps  rather  more 
so  than  was  justified  by  their  actual  prowess.  So  it  was 
not  surprising  that  they  took  to  each  other.  Perhaps  he 
wasn't  really  quite  as  heroic  as  he  appeared,  but  that's 
not  uncommon  among  other  lovers  besides  those  belong- 
ing to  the  lynx  tribe,  and  what  difference  did  it  make, 
anyhow,  as  long  as  she  didn't  know  it  ? 

That  winter  was  a  hard  one.     The  cold  was  intense, 
[86] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
the  snow  was  very  deep,  and  the  storms  came  often. 
Spruce  hens  and  partridges  were  scarce,  even  rabbits  were 
hard  to  find,  and  sometimes  it  seemed  to  the  two  lynxes 
as  if  they  were  the  only  animals  left  in  the  woods.  Ex- 
cept the  deer.  There  were  always  plenty  of  deer  down 
in  the  cedar  swamp,  and  their  tracks  were  as  plain  as  a 
lumberman's  logging  road.  But  although  the  lynxes 
sometimes  killed  and  ate  young  fawns  in  the  summer- 
time, they  seldom  tasted  venison  in  the  winter.  It  was 
well  for  them  that  they  had  each  other,  for  when  one 
failed  in  the  hunt  the  other  sometimes  succeeded,  yet  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  the  old  male,  especially,  might 
perhaps  have  been  of  more  use  to  his  mate  if  he  had  not 
confined  his  hunting  so  entirely  to  the  smaller  animals. 
More  than  once  he  sat  on  a  branch  of  a  tree  and  watched 
a  buck  or  doe  go  by,  and  his  claws  twitched  and  his  eyes 
blazed,  and  he  fairly  trembled  with  eagerness  and  excite- 
ment as  he  saw  the  big  gray  creature  pass,  all  uncon- 
scious, beneath  his  perch.  Splendidly  armed  as  he  was, 
it  would  seem  as  though  he  must  have  succeeded  if  only 
he  had  jumped  and  risked  a  tussle.  But  he  never  tried 
it.  I  suppose  he  was  afraid.  And  yet — such  were  the 
contradictions  of  his  nature — one  dark  night  he  trotted 

[87] 


Forest  Neighbors 

half  a  mile  after  a  shanty-boy  who  was  going  home  with 
a  haunch  of  venison  over  his  shoulder,  and  was  just  gath- 
ering himself  for  a  spring,  intending  to  leap  on  him  from 
behind,  when  another  man  appeared.  Two  against  one 
was  not  fair,  he  thought,  and  he  gave  it  up  and  beat  a 
retreat  without  either  of  them  seeing  him.  They  found 
his  footprints  the  next  morning  in  their  snow  -  shoe 
tracks,  and  wondered  how  far  behind  them  he  had  been. 
I  don't  know  whether  it  was  a  vein  of  real  courage  that 
nerved  him  up  to  doing  such  a  foolhardy  thing  as  to 
follow  a  man  with  the  intention  of  attacking  him,  or 
whether  it  was  simply  a  case  of  recklessness.  The  proba- 
bility is,  however,  that  he  was  hungrier  than  usual,  and 
that  the  smell  of  the  warm  blood  made  him  forget  every- 
thing else.  Anyhow,  he  had  a  pretty  close  call,  for  the 
shanty-boy  had  a  revolver  in  his  pocket. 

Aside  from  any  question  of  heroism,  I  am  afraid  that 
he  was  not  really  as  wise  and  discriminating  as  he  looked. 
I  have  an  idea  that  when  Nature  manufactured  him  she 
thought  he  did  not  need  as  much  wisdom  or  as  many  wits 
as  some  of  the  other  people  of  the  woods,  inasmuch  as  he 
was  larger  and  stronger  and  better  armed  than  most  of 
them.  Except  possibly  the  bear,  who  was  altogether  too 

[88] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
easy-going  to  molest  him,  there  was  not  one  of  the  ani- 
mals that  could  thrash  him,  and  they  all  knew  it  and  let 
him  alone.  You  can  often  manage  very  well  without 
brains  if  only  you  have  the  necessary  teeth  and  muscle 
and  claws ;  and  the  old  lynx  had  them,  without  a  doubt. 
But  I  fear  that  Nature,  in  adapting  a  wild  animal  to  his 
environment,  now  and  then  forgets  to  allow  for  the 
human  element  in  the  problem.  Brains  are  a  good  thing 
to  have,  after  all.  Even  to  a  lynx  the  time  is  pretty 
sure  to  come,  sooner  or  later,  when  he  needs  them  in  his 
business.  Your  fellow-citizens  of  the  woods  may  treat 
you  with  all  due  respect,  but  the  trapper  won't,  and  he'll 
get  you  if  you  don't  watch  out. 

One  day  he  found  some  more  snow-shoe  tracks,  just  like 
those  that  the  shanty-boy  had  left,  and  instead  of  run- 
ning away,  as  he  ought  to  have  done,  and  as  most  of  the 
animals  would  have  had  sense  enough  to  do,  he  followed 
them  up  to  see  where  they  led.  He  wasn't  particularly 
hungry  that  day,  and  there  was  absolutely  no  excuse  for 
what  he  did.  It  certainly  wasn't  bravery  that  inspired 
him,  for  he  had  not  the  least  idea  of  attacking  anyone. 
It  was  simply  a  case  of  foolish  curiosity.  He  followed 
the  trail  a  long  way,  not  walking  directly  in  it,  but  keep- 

[89] 


Forest  Neighbors 

ing  just  a  little  to  one  side,  wallowing  heavily  as  he  went, 
for  a  foot  and  a  half  of  light,  fluffy  snow  had  fallen  the 
day  before,  and  the  walking  was  very  bad.  Presently  he 
caught  sight  of  a  little  piece  of  scarlet  cloth  fastened  to  a 
stick  that  stood  upright  in  a  drift.  It  ought  to  have 
been  another  warning  to  him,  but  it  only  roused  his  curi- 
osity to  a  still  higher  pitch,  as  the  trapper  knew  it  would. 
He  sat  down  in  the  snow  and  considered.  The  thing 
didn't  really  look  as  if  it  were  good  to  eat,  and  yet  it 
might  be.  The  only  way  to  find  out  would  be  to  go  up 
to  it  and  taste  it.  But,  eatable  or  not,  such  a  bright  bit 
of  color  was  certainly  very  attractive  to  the  eye.  You 
would  think  so  yourself  if  you  hadn't  seen  anything  scar- 
let since  last  summer's  wild-flowers  faded.  Finally,  he 
got  up  and  walked  slowly  toward  it,  and  the  first  thing 
he  knew  a  steel  trap  had  him  by  the  right  foreleg. 

The  way  of  the  foolish  is  sometimes  as  hard  as  that 
of  the  transgressor.  For  a  few  minutes  he  was  the  very 
maddest  cat  in  all  the  Great  Tahquamenon  Swamp,  and  he 
yelled  and  howled  and  caterwauled  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
and  jumped  and  tore  around  as  if  he  was  crazy.  But, 
of  course,  that  sort  of  thing  did  him  no  good,  and  after 
a  while  he  quieted  down  and  took  things  a  little  more 

[90] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
calmly.  Instead  of  being  made  fast  to  a  tree,  the  trap 
was  bound  by  a  short  chain  to  a  heavy  wooden  clog,  and 
he  found  that  by  pulling  with  all  his  might  he  could  drag 
it  at  a  snail's  pace  through  the  snow.  So  off  he  went  on 
three  legs,  hauling  the  trap  and  clog  by  the  fourth,  with 
the  blood  oozing  out  around  the  steel  jaws  and  leaving  a 
line  of  bright  crimson  stains  behind  him.  The  strain  on 
his  foot  hurt  him  cruelly,  but  a  great  fear  was  in  his 
heart,  and  he  knew  that  he  must  go  away  or  die.  So  he 
pushed  on,  hour  after  hour,  stopping  now  and  then  to 
rest  for  a  few  minutes  in  a  thicket  of  cedar  or  hemlock, 
but  soon  gathering  his  strength  for  another  effort.  How 
he  growled  and  snarled  with  rage  and  pain,  and  how  his 
great  eyes  flamed  as  he  looked  ahead  to  see  what  was 
before  him,  or  back  along  his  trail  to  know  if  the  trap- 
per was  coming ! 

It  was  a  terrible  journey  that  he  made  that  night,  and 
the  hours  dragged  by  slow  as  his  pace  and  heavy  as  his 
clog.  He  was  heading  toward  the  hollow  tree  by  the 
Glimmerglass  that  he  and  his  mate  called  home,  but  he 
had  not  made  more  than  half  the  distance,  and  his 
strength  was  nearly  gone.  Half-way  between  midnight 
and  dawn  he  reached  the  edge  of  a  steep  and  narrow 

[91] 


Forest  Neighbors 

gully  that  lay  straight  across  his  path.  The  moon  had 
risen  some  time  before,  and  the  white  slopes  gleamed  and 
shone  in  the  frosty  light,  all  the  whiter  by  contrast  with 
the  few  bushes  and  trees  that  were  scattered  up  and  down 
the  little  valley.  The  lynx  stood  on  the  brink  and 
studied  the  proposition  before  him.  It  would  be  hard, 
hard  work  to  climb  the  farther  side,  dragging  that  heavy 
clog,  but  at  least  it  ought  to  be  easy  going  down.  He 
scrambled  over  the  edge,  hauling  the  clog  after  him  till  it 
began  to  roll  of  its  own  accord.  The  chain  slackened, 
and  he  leaped  forward.  It  was  good  to  be  able  to  jump 
again.  But  he  jumped  too  far,  or  tried  to,  and  the  chain 
tightened  with  a  jerk  that  brought  him  down  head-first 
in  the  snow.  Before  he  could  recover  himself  the  clog 
shot  past  him,  and  the  chain  jerked  again  and  sent  him 
heels  over  head.  And  then  cat,  trap,  and  clog  all  went 
rolling  over  and  over  down  the  slope,  and  landed  in  a 
heap  at  the  bottom.  All  the  breath  and  the  spirit  were 
knocked  out  of  him,  and  for  a  long  time  he  could  do 
nothing  but  lie  still  in  the  snow,  trembling  with  weak- 
ness and  pain,  and  moaning  miserably.  It  must  have 
been  half  an  hour  before  he  could  pull  himself  together 
again,  and  then,  just  as  he  was  about  to  begin  the  climb 

[92] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
up  the  far  side  of  the  gully,  he  suddenly  discovered  that 
he  was  no  longer  alone.  Off  to  the  left,  among  some 
thick  bushes,  he  saw  the  lurking  form  of  a  timber-wolf. 
He  looked  to  the  right,  and  there  was  another.  Behind 
him  was  a  third,  and  he  thought  he  saw  several  others 
still  farther  away,  slinking  from  bush  to  bush,  and  gradu- 
ally drawing  nearer.  Ordinarily  they  would  hardly  have 
dreamed  of  tackling  him,  and,  if  they  had  mustered  up 
sufficient  courage  to  attempt  to  overpower  him  by  mere 
force  of  numbers,  he  would  simply  have  climbed  a  tree 
and  laughed  at  them.  But  now  it  was  different. 

The  lynx  cowered  down  in  the  snow  and  seemed  to 
shrink  to  half  his  normal  size  ;  and  then,  as  all  the  horror 
and  the  hopelessness  of  it  came  over  him,  he  lifted  up  his 
voice  in  such  a  cry  of  abject  fear,  such  a  wail  of  utter 
agony  and  despair,  as  even  the  Great  Tahquamenon 
Swamp  had  very  seldom  heard.  I  suppose  that  he  had 
killed  and  eaten  hundreds  of  smaller  animals  in  his  time, 
but  I  doubt  if  any  of  his  victims  ever  suffered  as  he  did. 
Most  of  them  were  taken  unawares,  and  were  killed  and 
eaten  almost  before  they  knew  what  was  coming ;  but  he 
had  to  lie  still  and  see  his  enemies  slowly  closing  in  upon 
him,  knowing  all  the  time  that  he  could  not  fight  to  any 

[93] 


Forest  Neighbors 

advantage,  and  that  to  fly  was  utterly  impossible.  But 
when  the  last  moment  arrived  he  must  have  braced  up 
and  given  a  good  account  of  himself.  At  least  that  was 
what  the  trapper  decided  when  he  came  a  few  hours  later 
to  look  for  his  trap.  The  lynx  was  gone — not  even  a 
broken  bone  of  him  was  left — but  there  in  the  trodden 
and  blood  -  stained  snow  was  the  record  of  an  awful 
struggle.  There  must  have  been  something  heroic 
about  him,  after  all. 

For  the  rest  of  the  winter  his  widow  had  to  hunt  alone. 
This  was  not  such  a  great  hardship  in  itself,  for  they 
had  frequently  gone  out  separately  on  their  marauding 
expeditions — more  often,  perhaps,  than  they  had  gone 
together.  But  now  there  was  never  anyone  to  curl  up 
beside  her  in  the  hollow  tree  and  help  her  keep  warm,  or 
to  share  his  kill  with  her  when  her  own  was  unsuccessful. 
And  when  the  spring  should  come  and  bring  her  a  family 
of  kittens,  she  would  have  to  take  on  her  own  shoulders 
the  whole  burden  of  parental  responsibility.  Or,  rather, 
the  burden  was  already  there,  for  if  she  did  not  find 
enough  meat  to  keep  herself  in  good  health  the  babies 
would  be  weak  and  wizened  and  unpromising,  with  small 
chance  of  growing  up  to  be  a  credit  to  her  or  a  satisfac- 

[94] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
tion  to  themselves.  So  she  hunted  night  and  day,  and, 
on  the  whole,  with  very  good  results.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  think  she  was  rather  more  skilful  in  the  chase  than  her 
mate  had  been,  and  this  seems  to  be  a  not  uncommon 
state  of  things  in  cat  families.  Perhaps  feminine  fineness 
of  instinct  and  lightness  of  tread  are  better  adapted  to 
the  still-hunt  than  the  greater  clumsiness  and  awkward- 
ness of  masculinity.  Or,  is  there  something  deeper  than 
that  ?  Has  something  whispered  to  these  savage  mothers 
that  on  their  success  depends  more  than  their  own  lives, 
and  that  it  is  their  sacred  duty  to  kill,  kill,  kill  ?  How- 
ever that  may  be,  she  proved  herself  a  mighty  huntress 
before  the  Lord.  Her  eye  was  keen,  and  her  foot  was 
sure,  and  she  made  terrible  havoc  among  the  rabbits  and 
partridges. 

And  yet  there  were  times  when  even  she  was  hungry 
and  tired  and  disheartened.  Once,  on  a  clear,  keen,  cold 
winter  night  when  all  the  great  white  world  seemed 
frozen  to  death,  she  serenaded  a  land-looker  who  had 
made  his  bed  in  a  deserted  lumber-camp  and  was  trying 
to  sleep.  She  had  eaten  almost  nothing  for  several  days, 
and  she  knew  that  her  strength  was  ebbing.  That  very 
evening  she  had  fallen  short  in  a  flying  leap  at  a  rabbit, 

[95] 


Forest  Neighbors 

and  had  seen  him  dive  head-first  into  his  burrow,  safe  by 
the  merest  fraction  of  an  inch.  She  had  fairly  screeched 
with  rage  and  disappointment,  and  as  the  hours  went  by 
and  she  found  no  other  game,  she  grew  so  blue  and  dis- 
couraged that  she  really  couldn't  contain  herself  any 
longer.  Perhaps  it  did  her  good  to  have  a  cry.  For 
two  hours  the  land-looker  lay  in  his  bunk  and  listened 
to  a  wailing  that  made  his  heart  fairly  sink  within  him. 
Now  it  was  a  piercing  scream,  now  it  was  a  sob,  and  now 
it  died  away  in  a  low  moan,  only  to  rise  again,  wilder 
and  more  agonized  than  ever.  He  knew  without  a  doubt 
that  it  was  only  some  kind  of  a  cat — knew  it  just  as  well 
as  he  knew  that  his  compass  needle  pointed  north.  Yet 
there  had  been  times  in  his  land-looking  experience  when 
he  had  been  ready  to  swear  that  the  needle  was  pointing 
south -southeast ;  and  to-night,  in  spite  of  his  certain 
knowledge  that  the  voice  he  heard  was  that  of  a  lynx  or 
a  wild-cat  or  cougar,  he  couldn't  help  being  almost  dead 
sure  that  it  came  from  a  woman  in  distress,  there  was  in 
it  such  a  note  of  human  anguish  and  despair.  Twice  he 
got  half-way  out  of  bed  to  go  to  her  assistance,  and  then 
lay  down  again  and  called  himself  a  fool.  At  last  he 
could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  taking  a  burning  brand 

[96] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
from  the  broken  stove  that  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  he  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  The  great 
arc-light  of  the  moon  had  checkered  the  snow-crust  with 
inky  shadows,  and  patches  of  dazzling  white.  The  cold 
air  struck  him  like  needles,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  it 
was  no  wonder  that  either  a  cat  or  a  woman  should  cry 
if  she  had  to  stay  out  in  the  snow  on  such  a  night.  The 
moaning  and  wailing  ceased  as  he  opened  the  door,  but 
now  two  round  spots  of  flame  shone  out  of  a  black 
shadow  and  stared  at  him  unwinkingly.  The  lynx's 
pupils  were  wide  open,  and  the  golden -yellow  tapeta  in 
the  backs  of  her  eyeballs  were  glowing  like  incandescent 
lamps.  It  was  no  woman.  No  human  eyes  could  ever 
shine  like  that.  The  land-looker  threw  the  brand  with 
all  his  might ;  an  ugly  snarl  came  from  the  shadow,  and 
he  saw  a  big  gray  animal  go  tearing  away  across  the 
hard,  smooth  crust  in  a  curious  kind  of  gallop,  taking 
three  or  four  yards  at  a  bound,  coming  down  on  all 
four  feet  at  once,  and  spring  forward  again  as  if  she 
was  made  of  rubber.  He  shut  the  door  and  went  back 
to  bed. 

That  was  the  end  of  the  concert,  and,  as  it  turned  out, 
it  was  also  the  end  of  the  lynx's  troubles,  at  least  for  the 

[97] 


Forest  Neighbors 

time  being.  Half  an  hour  later,  as  she  was  loping  along 
in  the  moonlight,  she  thought  she  heard  a  faint  sound 
from  beneath  her  feet.  She  stood  still  to  listen,  and  the 
next  minute  she  was  sure.  During  the  last  heavy  snow- 
storm three  partridges  had  dived  into  a  drift  for  shelter 
from  the  wind  and  the  cold,  and  such  a  thick,  hard  crust 
had  formed  over  their  heads  that  they  had  not  been  able 
to  get  out  again.  She  resurrected  them  in  short  order 
and  reinterred  them  after  a  fashion  of  her  own,  and  then 
she  went  home  to  her  hollow  tree  and  slept  the  sleep  of 
those  who  have  done  what  Nature  tells  them  to,  and 
whose  consciences  are  clear  and  whose  stomachs  full. 

That  was  her  nearest  approach  to  starvation.  She 
never  was  quite  so  hungry  again,  and  in  the  early  spring 
she  had  a  great  piece  of  luck.  Not  very  far  from  her 
hollow  tree  she  met  a  buck  that  had  been  mortally 
wounded  by  a  hunter.  He  had  had  strength  enough  to 
run  away,  and  to  throw  his  pursuer  off  his  track,  but 
there  was  very  little  fight  left  in  him.  In  such  a  case  as 
this  she  was  quite  ready  to  attack,  and  it  did  not  take 
her  long  to  finish  him.  Probably  it  was  a  merciful  re- 
lease, for  he  had  suffered  greatly  in  the  last  few  days. 
Fortunately  no  wolves  or  other  large  animals  found  him, 

[98] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
and  he  gave  her  meat  till  after  the  kittens  had  come  and 
she  had  begun  to  grow  well  and  strong  again. 

The  kittens  were  a  great  success — two  of  the  finest  she 
had  ever  had,  and  she  had  had  many.  But  at  first,  of 
course,  they  were  rather  insignificant-looking — just  two 
little  balls  of  reddish-brown  fur  that  turned  over  once  in 
a  while  and  mewed  for  their  dinner.  Some  of  the  scien- 
tific men  say  that  a  new-born  baby  has  no  mind,  but 
only  a  blank  something  that  appears  to  be  capable  of 
receiving  and  retaining  impressions,  and  that  may  in  cer- 
tain cases  have  tendencies.  There  is  reason  for  thinking 
that  the  baby  lynxes  had  tendencies.  But  imagine,  if  you 
can,  what  their  first  impressions  were  like.  And  remem- 
ber that  they  were  blind,  and  that  if  their  ears  heard 
sounds  they  certainly  did  not  comprehend  them.  Some- 
times they  were  cold  and  hungry  and  lonesome,  and  that 
was  an  impression  of  the  wrong  sort.  They  did  not 
know  what  the  trouble  was,  but  something  was  the  mat- 
ter, that  was  certain,  and  they  cried  about  it,  like  other 
babies.  Then  would  come  a  great,  warm,  comforting 
presence,  and  all  would  be  right  again ;  and  that  was  a 
very  pleasant  impression,  indeed.  I  don^t  suppose  they 
knew  exactly  what  had  been  done  to  them.  Probably 

[99] 


Forest  Neighbors 

they  were  not  definitely  aware  that  their  empty  stomachs 
had  been  filled,  or  that  their  shrinking,  shivering  little 
bodies  were  snuggled  down  in  somebody's  thick  fur  coat, 
or  that  somebody's  warm  red  tongue  was  licking  and 
stroking  and  caressing  them.  Much  less  could  they  have 
known  how  that  big,  strong,  comforting  somebody  came 
to  be  there,  or  how  many  harmless  and  guiltless  little 
lives  had  been  snuffed  out  to  give  her  life  and  to  enable 
her  to  give  it  to  them.  But  they  knew  that  all  was  well 
with  them,  and  that  everything  was  just  as  it  should  be 
— and  they  took  another  nap. 

By  and  by  they  began  to  look  about  for  impressions, 
and  were  no  longer  content  with  lying  still  and  taking 
only  what  came  to  them.  They  seemed  to  acquire  a 
mental  appetite  for  impressions  that  was  almost  as  raven- 
ous as  their  stomachs'  appetite  for  milk,  and  their  weak 
little  legs  were  forced  to  lift  their  squat  little  bodies  and 
carry  them  on  exploring  expeditions  around  the  inside  of 
the  hollow  tree,  where  they  bumped  their  heads  against 
the  walls,  and  stumbled  and  fell  down  over  the  inequal- 
ities of  the  floor.  They  got  a  good  many  impressions 
during  these  excursions,  and  some  of  them  were  mental 
and  some  were  physical.  And  sometimes  they  explored 

[100] 


"  7Vze  Ao/e  w«i*  suddenly  darkened,  and  a  round,  hairy  face  looked  in. 


.-     „     .      .>•*,      j    >,        ; 

The  Strenuous  Life  of  a,  Canada  Ly'rix 
their  mother,  and  went  scrambling  and  sprawling  all  over 
her,  probably  getting  about  as  well  acquainted  with  her 
as  it  is  possible  to  be  with  a  person  whom  one  has  never 
seen.  For  their  eyes  were  still  closed,  and  they  must 
have  known  her  only  as  a  big,  kind,  loving,  furry  thing, 
that  fed  them,  and  warmed  them,  and  licked  them,  and 
made  them  feel  good,  and  yet  was  almost  as  vague  and 
indefinite  as  something  in  a  dream.  But  the  hour  came 
at  last  when  for  the  first  time  they  saw  the  light  of  day 
shining  in  through  the  hole  in  the  side  of  their  tree. 
And  while  they  were  looking  at  it — and  probably  blink- 
ing at  it — a  footstep  sounded  outside,  the  hole  was  sud- 
denly darkened,  and  a  round,  hairy  face  looked  in — a 
face  with  big,  unwinking  eyes,  pointed,  tufted  ears,  and 
a  thick  whisker  brushed  back  from  under  its  chin.  Do 
you  suppose  they  recognized  their  mother  ?  I  don't  be- 
lieve they  did.  But  when  she  jumped  in  beside  them, 
then  they  knew  her,  and  the  impression  they  gained  that 
day  was  one  of  the  most  wonderful  of  all. 

In  looks,  these  kittens  of  the  woods  were  not  so  very 
different  from  those  of  the  backyard,  except  that  they 
were  bigger  and  perhaps  a  little  clumsier,  and  that  their 
paws  were  very  large,  and  their  tails  very  short  and 

[101] 


•....,    forest  Neighbors 

stubby.  They  grew  stronger  as  the  days  went  on,  and 
their  legs  did  not  wobble  quite  so  much  when  they  went 
travelling  around  the  inside  of  the  tree.  And  they 
learned  to  use  their  ears  as  well  as  their  eyes.  They 
knew  what  their  mother's  step  meant  at  the  entrance, 
and  they  liked  to  hear  her  purr. 

Other  sounds  there  were  which  they  did  not  under- 
stand so  well,  and  to  most  of  which  they  gave  little  heed 
— the  scream  of  the  rabbit  when  the  big  gray  cat  leaps 
on  him  from  behind  a  bush;  the  scolding  of  the  red 
squirrel,  disturbed  and  angry  at  the  sight,  and  fearful 
that  he  may  be  the  next  victim  ;  the  bark  of  the  fox  ;  the 
rasping  of  the  porcupine^s  teeth  ;  and  oftenest  of  all  the 
pleasant  rustling  and  whispering  of  the  trees,  for  by  this 
time  the  sun  and  the  south  wind  had  come  back  and  done 
their  work,  and  the  voice  of  the  leaves  was  heard  in  the 
land.  All  these  noises  of  the  woods,  and  many  others 
besides,  came  to  them  from  outside  the  walls  of  the  tree, 
from  a  vast,  mysterious  region  of  which  as  yet  they  knew 
nothing  except  that  their  mother  often  went  there.  She 
was  beginning  to  think  that  they  were  big  enough  and 
old  enough  to  learn  something  more  about  it,  and  so  one 
day  she  led  them  out  of  the  hole,  and  they  saw  the  sun- 

[102] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
shine,  and  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  green  of  the  trees, 
and  the  whiteness  of  the  sailing  clouds,  and  the  beauty  of 
the  Glimmerglass.  But  I  don't  think  they  appreciated 
the  wonder  and  the  glory  of  it  all,  or  paid  as  much  at- 
tention to  it  as  they  ought.  They  were  too  much  inter- 
ested in  making  their  legs  work  properly,  for  their  knees 
were  still  rather  weak,  and  were  apt  to  give  out  all  of  a 
sudden,  and  to  let  a  fellow  sit  down  when  he  didn't  want 
to.  And  the  dry  leaves  and  little  sticks  kept  sliding 
around  under  one's  feet  so  that  one  never  knew  what  was 
going  to  happen  next.  It  was  very  different  from  the  hol- 
low tree,  and  they  were  glad  when  their  mother  picked 
them  up  one  at  a  time  by  the  back  of  the  neck,  earned 
them  home,  gave  them  their  supper,  and  told  them  to  lie 
still  and  take  a  nap  while  she  went  after  another  rabbit. 

But  they  had  really  done  very  well,  considering  that  it 
was  their  first  day  out.  One  of  them  in  particular  was 
very  smart  and  precocious,  and  she  had  taken  much 
pleasure  in  watching  the  independent  way  in  which  he 
went  staggering  about,  looking  for  impressions.  And 
the  other  was  not  far  behind  him.  Her  long  hours  of 
still-hunting  had  brought  their  rich  reward,  and  her 
babies  were  all  that  she  could  ask. 

[103] 


Forest  Neighbors 

She  was  in  the  habit  of  occasionally  bringing  some- 
thing home  for  them  to  play  with — a  wood-mouse,  per- 
haps, or  a  squirrel,  or  a  partridge,  or  even  a  larger  ani- 
mal ;  and  they  played  with  it  with  a  vengeance,  shaking 
and  worrying  it,  and  spitting  and  growling  and  snarling 
over  it  in  the  most  approved  fashion.  And  you  should 
have  seen  them  the  first  time  they  saw  their  mother  catch 
a  rabbit.  They  did  not  try  to  help  her,  for  she  had  told 
them  not  to,  but  they  watched  her  as  if  it  was  a  matter 
of  life  and  death — as,  indeed,  it  was,  but  not  to  them. 
The  rabbit  was  nibbling  some  tender  young  sprouts. 
The  old  lynx  crept  up  behind  him  very  quietly  and 
stealthily,  and  the  kittens'  eyes  stuck  out  farther  and 
farther  as  they  saw  her  gradually  work  up  within  leaping 
distance.  They  nearly  jumped  out  of  their  skins  with 
excitement  when  at  last  she  gave  a  bound  and  landed 
with  both  forepaws  on  the  middle  of  his  back.  And 
when  the  rabbit  screamed  out  in  his  fright  and  pain,  they 
could  not  contain  themselves  any  longer,  but  rushed 
in  and  helped  finish  him.  They  seemed  to  understand 
the  game  as  perfectly  as  if  they  had  been  practising  it 
for  years.  I  suppose  that  was  where  their  tendencies 
came  in. 

[104] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
A  few  days  later  they  had  another  experience — or  at 
least  one  of  them  did.  Their  mother  happened  to  see 
two  little  wood- mice  run  under  a  small,  half-decayed  log, 
and  she  put  her  forefeet  against  it  and  rolled  it  half-way 
over ;  and  then,  while  she  held  it  there,  the  larger  Kitten 
— the  one  who  had  made  the  better  record  the  day  they 
first  left  the  den — thrust  his  paw  under  and  grabbed  one 
of  them.  The  other  mouse  got  away,  but  I  don't  think 
the  Kitten  cared  very  much.  He  had  made  his  first  kill, 
and  that  was  glory  enough  for  one  day. 

From  wood-mice  the  kittens  progressed  to  chipmunks, 
and  from  them  to  larger  game.  With  use  and  exercise 
their  soft  baby  muscles  grew  hard  and  strong,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  they  were  able  to  follow  the  old  lynx 
almost  anywhere,  to  the  tops  of  the  tallest  trees,  over 
the  roughest  ground,  and  through  the  densest  thickets. 
And  they  learned  other  things  besides  how  to  walk  and 
climb  and  hunt.  Their  mother  was  a  good  teacher  and 
a  rather  rigid  disciplinarian,  and  very  early  in  life  they 
were  taught  that  they  must  obey  promptly  and  without 
question,  and  that  on  certain  occasions  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  keep  perfectly  still  and  not  make  the  slight- 
est sound.  For  instance,  there  was  the  time  when  the 

[105] 


Forest  Neighbors 

whole  family  lay  sprawled  out  on  a  limb  of  a  tree,  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet  up  from  the  ground,  and  watched  the 
land-looker  go  by  with  his  half-axe  over  his  shoulder,  his 
compass  in  his  hand,  and  a  note-book  sticking  out  of  his 
pocket.  They  were  so  motionless,  and  the  grayish  color 
of  their  fur  matched  so  well  with  the  bark  of  the  tree, 
that  he  never  saw  them,  although  for  a  moment  they 
were  right  over  his  head,  and  could  have  leaped  to  his 
shoulders  as  easily  as  not. 

In  short,  the  kittens  were  learning  to  take  care  of 
themselves,  and  it  was  well  that  they  were,  for  one  day 
their  mother  was  taken  from  them  in  a  strange,  sad  way, 
and  there  was  nothing  they  could  do  but  cry,  and  try  to 
follow  her,  and  at  last  see  her  pass  out  of  sight,  still 
looking  back  and  calling  to  them  pitifully.  It  was  the 
river  that  earned  her  off,  and  it  was  a  floating  saw-log 
that  she  rode  upon,  an  unwilling  passenger.  The  trouble 
began  with  a  steel  trap,  just  as  it  did  in  their  father's 
case.  Traps  are  not  nearly  as  much  to  be  feared  in  sum- 
mer or  early  fall  as  in  winter,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
one's  fur  is  not  as  valuable  in  warm  weather  as  in  cold. 
The  lynx's,  for  instance,  was  considerably  shorter  and 
thinner  than  it  had  been  in  the  preceding  December, 

[106] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
when  she  and  her  mate  first  met,  and  it  had  taken  on  a 
reddish  tinge,  as  if  the  steel  had  begun  to  rust  a  trifle. 
But  the  killing  machines  are  to  be  found  occasionally 
at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  and  somebody  had  set  this  one 
down  by  the  edge  of  the  water — not  the  Glimmerglass, 
but  a  branch  of  the  Tahquamenon  River  — and  had 
chained  it  to  a  log  that  had  been  hung  up  in  last  spring's 
drive.  When  she  first  felt  its  grip  on  her  leg  she  yelled 
and  tore  around  just  as  her  mate  had  done,  while  the  kit- 
tens looked  on  in  wonder  and  amazement.  They  had  seen 
their  mother  in  many  moods,  but  never  in  one  like  this. 
But  by  and  by  she  grew  weary,  and  a  little  later  it  began 
to  rain.  She  was  soon  soaking  wet,  and  as  the  hours 
dragged  on  every  ounce  of  courage  and  gumption  seemed 
to  ooze  out  of  her.  If  the  trapper  had  come  then  he 
would  have  found  her  very  meek  and  limp.  Possibly 
she  would  have  been  ready  to  fight  him  for  her  children's 
sakes,  but  nothing  else  could  have  nerved  her  to  it.  But 
she  was  not  put  to  any  such  test ;  the  trapper  did  not 
come. 

It  rained  very  hard,  and  it  rained  very  long.  In  fact 
it  had  been  raining  most  of  the  time  for  two  or  three 
days  before  the  lynx  found  the  trap,  and  in  a  few  more 

[107] 


Forest  Neighbors 

hours  the  Great  Tahquamenon  Swamp  was  as  full  of 
water  as  a  soaked  sponge,  and  the  river  was  rising 
rapidly.  The  lynx  was  soon  lying  in  a  puddle,  and  to 
get  out  of  it  she  climbed  upon  the  log  and  stretched  her- 
self out  on  the  wet,  brown  bark.  Still  the  river  rose, 
and  by  and  by  the  log  began  to  stir  in  its  bed,  as  if  it 
were  thinking  of  renewing  its  voyage.  At  last,  when  she 
had  been  there  nearly  twenty-four  hours,  and  was  faint 
with  hunger,  as  well  as  cold  and  wet,  it  quietly  swung 
out  into  the  current  and  drifted  away  down  the  stream. 
She  was  an  excellent  swimmer,  and  she  promptly  jumped 
overboard  and  tried  to  reach  the  shore,  but  of  course  the 
chain  put  a  stop  to  that.  Weakened  by  fasting,  and 
borne  down  by  the  weight  of  the  trap,  she  came  very 
near  drowning  before  she  could  scramble  up  again  over 
the  end  of  the  log  and  seat  herself  amidships. 

The  kittens  were  foraging  among  the  bushes,  but  she 
called  to  them  in  a  tone  which  told  them  plainly  enough 
that  some  new  trouble  had  befallen  her,  and  they  hurried 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  stood  there,  mewing 
piteously.  She  implored  them  to  follow  her,  and  after 
much  persuasion  the  bigger  and  bolder  of  the  two 
plunged  bravely  in.  But  he  didn't  get  very  far.  It 

[108] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
was  very  cold  and  very  wet,  and  he  wasn't  used  to  swim- 
ming. Besides,  the  water  got  into  his  nose  and  made 
him  sneeze,  which  distracted  his  attention  so  that  for  a 
moment  he  forgot  all  about  his  mother,  and  just  turned 
around  and  hustled  back  to  the  shore  as  fast  as  he  could 
go.  After  that  he  contented  himself  with  following 
along  the  bank  and  keeping  as  near  her  as  he  could. 
Once  the  log  drifted  in  so  close  that  she  thought  she 
could  jump  ashore,  and  the  Kitten  watched  eagerly  as  she 
gathered  herself  for  the  spring.  But  the  chain  was  too 
short,  and  she  fell  into  the  water.  Her  forepaw  just 
grazed  the  grass-tuft  where  the  Kitten  was  standing,  and 
for  an  instant  she  felt  the  blades  slipping  between  her 
toes ;  but  the  next  moment  she  was  swimming  for  the  log 
again,  and  the  Kitten  was  mewing  his  sympathy  at  the 
top  of  his  voice. 

They  journeyed  on  for  nearly  an  hour  longer,  she  on 
her  prison-ship,  and  he  on  land ;  and  then,  before  either 
of  them  knew  just  what  had  happened,  the  little  tribu- 
tary had  emptied  itself  into  the  main  stream  of  the  Tah- 
quamenon,  and  they  suddenly  realized  that  they  were 
much  farther  apart  than  they  had  been  at  any  time  be- 
fore. This  new  river  was  several  times  as  broad  as  the 

[109] 


Forest  Neighbors 

one  on  which  the  voyage  had  begun,  and  the  wind  was 
steadily  carrying  her  away  from  the  shore,  while  the  cur- 
rent bore  her  resistlessly  on  in  its  long,  slow  voyage  to 
Lake  Superior.  She  was  still  calling  to  him,  but  her 
voice  was  growing  fainter  and  fainter  in  the  distance, 
and  so,  at  last,  she  passed  out  of  his  sight  and  hearing 
forever. 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  he  missed  his  brother. 
The  other  kitten  had  always  been  a  trifle  the  slower  of 
the  two,  and  in  some  way  he  had  dropped  behind.  Our 
friend  was  alone  in  the  world. 

But  the  same  river  that  had  carried  his  mother  away 
brought  him  a  little  comfort  in  his  desolation,  for  down 
by  the  water's  edge,  cast  up  on  the  sand  by  a  circling 
eddy,  he  found  a  dead  sucker.  He  ate  it  with  relish,  and 
felt  better  in  spite  of  himself.  It  made  a  very  large 
meal  for  a  lynx  of  his  size,  and  by  the  time  he  had  fin- 
ished it  he  began  to  be  drowsy,  so  he  picked  out  the 
driest  spot  he  could  find,  under  the  thick  branches  of  a 
large  hemlock,  and  curled  himself  up  on  the  brown 
needles  and  went  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  he  had  to  hustle  for  a  living,  and  the 
next  it  was  the  same,  and  the  next,  and  the  next.  As 

[110] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
the  weeks  and  the  months  went  by  there  was  every  indi- 
cation that  life  would  be  little  else  than  one  long  hustle 
— or  perhaps  a  short  one — and  in  spite  of  all  he  could  do 
there  were  times  when  he  was  very  near  the  end  of  the 
chapter.  But  his  mother's  lessons  stood  him  in  good 
stead,  and  he  was  exceedingly  well  armed  for  the  chase. 
It  would  have  been  hard  to  find  in  all  the  woods  any 
teeth  better  adapted  than  his  to  the  work  of  pulling  a 
fellow-creature  to  pieces.  In  front,  on  both  the  upper 
and  lower  jaws,  were  the  chisel-shaped  incisors.  Flank- 
ing them  were  the  canines,  very  long  and  slender,  and 
very  sharply  pointed,  thrusting  themselves  into  the  meat 
like  the  tines  of  a  carving-fork,  and  tearing  it  away  in 
great  shreds.  And  back  of  the  canines  were  other  teeth 
that  were  still  larger,  but  shorter  and  broader,  and 
shaped  more  like  notched  knife-blades.  Those  of  the 
lower  jaw  worked  inside  those  of  the  upper,  like  shears, 
and  they  were  very  handy  for  cutting  the  large  chunks 
into  pieces  small  enough  to  go  down  his  throat.  By  the 
time  he  got  through  with  a  partridge  there  was  not  much 
left  of  it  but  a  puddle  of  brown  feathers.  His  claws,  too, 
were  very  long  and  white,  and  very  wickedly  curved ;  and 
before  starting  out  on  a  hunt  he  would  often  get  up  on 

[in] 


Forest  Neighbors 

his  hind  legs  and  sharpen  those  of  his  forefeet  on  a  tree- 
trunk,  just  as  your  house-cat  sharpens  hers  on  the  leg  of 
the  kitchen-table.  When  he  wasn't  using  them  he  kept 
them  hidden  between  his  toes,  so  that  they  would  not  be 
constantly  catching  and  breaking  on  roots  and  things ; 
but  all  he  had  to  do  when  he  wanted  them  was  to  pull 
certain  muscles,  and  out  they  came,  ready  to  scratch  and 
tear  to  his  heart's  content.  They  were  not  by  any  means 
full  grown  as  yet,  but  they  bade  fair  to  equal  his  father's 
some  day.  He  was  warmly  and  comfortably  clothed,  of 
course,  and  along  his  sides  and  flanks  the  hair  hung  espe- 
cially thick  and  long,  to  protect  his  body  when  he  was 
obliged  to  wade  through  light,  fluffy  snow.  When  there 
was  a  crust  he  didn't  need  it,  for  his  paws  were  so  big 
and  broad  and  hairy  that  at  such  times  they  bore  him  up 
almost  as  well  as  if  they  had  been  two  pairs  of  snow- 
shoes. 

But,  well  armed,  well  clad,  and  well  shod  though  he 
was,  it  was  fortunate  for  the  Kitten  that  his  first  winter 
was  a  mild  one — mild,  that  is,  for  the  Glimmerglass 
country.  Otherwise  things  might  have  gone  very  hard 
with  him,  and  they  were  none  too  easy  as  it  was.  There 
were  days  when  he  was  even  hungrier  than  his  mother 

[112] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
had  been  the  night  she  serenaded  the  land-looker,  and  it 
was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  he  found  a  porcupine 
in  a  tree  and  tried  to  make  a  meal  of  him.  That  was 
a  memorable  experience.  The  porky  was  sitting  in  a 
crotch,  doing  nothing  in  particular,  and  when  the  Kitten 
approached  he  simply  put  his  nose  down  and  his  quills 
up.  The  Kitten  spat  at  him  contemptuously,  but  with- 
out any  apparent  effect.  Then  he  put  out  a  big  fore- 
paw  and  tapped  him  lightly  on  the  forehead.  The  por- 
cupine flipped  his  tail,  and  the  Kitten  jumped  back,  and 
spat  and  hissed  harder  than  ever.  He  didn't  quite  know 
what  to  make  of  this  singular-looking  creature,  but  he 
was  young  and  rash,  besides  being  awfully,  awfully  hun- 
gry, and  in  another  minute  he  pitched  in. 

The  next  thing  they  knew,  the  porcupine  had  dropped 
to  the  ground,  where  he  lit  in  a  snow-bank,  and  presently 
picked  himself  up  and  waddled  off  to  another  tree,  while 
the  Kitten — well,  the  Kitten  just  sat  in  the  crotch  and 
cried  as  hard  as  ever  he  could  cry.  There  were  quills  in 
his  nose,  and  quills  in  his  side,  and  quills  in  both  his  fore- 
paws  ;  and  every  motion  was  agony.  He  himself  never 
knew  exactly  how  he  got  rid  of  them  all,  so  of  course  I 
can't  tell  you.  A  few  of  those  that  were  caught  only  by 

[118] 


Forest  Neighbors 

their  very  tips  may  possibly  have  dropped  out,  but  it  is 
probable  that  most  of  them  broke  off'  and  left  their  points 
to  work  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  flesh  until  the  skin 
finally  closed  over  them  and  they  disappeared.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  pieces  of  those  quills  are  still  wandering  about 
in  various  parts  of  his  anatomy,  like  the  quart  of  lead 
that  "  Little  Bobs  "  carries  around  with  him,  according  to 
Mr.  Kipling.  It  was  weeks  before  he  ceased  to  feel  the 
pain  of  them. 

For  several  days  after  this  mishap  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  hunt,  and  he  would  certainly  have  starved  to 
death  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  cougar  who  providentially 
came  to  the  Glimmerglass  on  a  short  visit.  The  Kitten 
found  his  tracks  in  the  snow  the  very  next  day,  and  cau- 
tiously followed  them  up,  limping  as  he  went,  to  see  what 
the  big  fellow  had  been  doing.  For  a  mile  or  more  the 
large,  round,  shapeless  footprints — very  much  like  his 
own,  but  on  a  bigger  scale — were  spaced  so  regularly  that 
it  was  evident  the  cougar  had  been  simply  walking  along  at 
a  very  leisurely  gait,  with  nothing  to  disturb  his  frame  of 
mind.  But  after  a  while  the  record  showed  a  remarkable 
change.  The  footprints  were  only  a  few  inches  apart, 
and  his  cougarship  had  carried  himself  so  low  that  his 

[114] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
body  had  dragged  in  the  snow  and  left  a  deep  furrow 
behind.  The  Kitten  knew  what  that  meant.  He  had 
been  there  himself,  though  not  after  the  same  kind  of 
prey.  And  then  the  trail  stopped  entirely,  and  for  a 
space  the  snow  lay  fresh  and  virgin  and  untrodden. 
But  twenty  feet  away  was  the  spot  where  the  cougar  had 
come  down  on  all-fours,  only  to  leap  forward  again  like  a 
ricochetting  cannon-ball ;  and  twenty-five  feet  farther  lay 
the  greater  part  of  the  carcass  of  a  deer. 

The  Kitten  stuffed  himself  as  full  as  he  could  hold,  and 
then  climbed  a  tree  and  watched.  About  midnight  the 
cougar  appeared,  and  after  he  had  eaten  his  fill  and  gone 
away  again  the  Kitten  slipped  down  and  ate  some  more. 
He  was  making  up  for  lost  time.  For  four  successive 
nights  the  cougar  came  and  feasted  on  venison,  but  after 
that  the  Kitten  never  saw  him  or  heard  of  him  again. 
There  was  still  a  goodly  quantity  of  meat  left,  and  it 
seems  somewhat  curious  that  he  did  not  return  for  it,  but 
he  was  a  stranger  in  those  parts,  and  it  is  probable  that 
he  went  back  to  his  old  haunts,  up  toward  Whitefish 
Point,  perhaps,  or  the  Grand  Sable.  Anyhow,  it  was 
very  nice  for  the  Kitten,  for  that  deer  kept  him  in  pro- 
visions until  he  was  able  to  take  up  hunting  once  more. 

["5] 


Forest  Neighbors 

He  had  one  rather  exciting  experience  during  this 
period.  One  day,  just  as  he  was  finishing  a  very  enjoy- 
able meal  of  venison  tenderloin,  he  heard  the  tramp  of 
snow-shoes  on  the  crust,  and  in  a  moment  more  that  same 
land-looker  came  pacing  down  a  section  line  and  halted 
squarely  in  front  of  him.  Now  there  are  trappers  who 
say  that  a  Canada  lynx  is  a  fool  and  a  coward,  that  he 
will  run  from  a  small  dog,  and  that  he  makes  his  living 
entirely  by  preying  on  animals  that  are  weaker  and  more 
poorly  armed  than  he.  I  admit,  of  course,  that  the  ma- 
jority of  lynxes  do  not  go  ramming  around  the  woods  with 
chips  on  their  shoulders,  looking  for  hunters  armed  with 
bowie-knives  and  repeating  rifles.  You  wouldn't,  either — 
not  as  long  as  there  were  rabbits  to  be  had  for  the  stalk- 
ing. But  on  this  occasion  the  Kitten's  conduct  certainly 
savored  of  recklessness,  if  not  of  real  bravery.  Being  en- 
tirely unacquainted  with  the  land-looking  profession,  he 
naturally  supposed  that  the  man  had  come  for  his  deer. 
And  he  didn't  propose  to  let  him  have  it.  He  considered 
that  that  venison  belonged  to  him,  and  he  took  his  stand 
on  the  carcass,  laid  his  ears  back,  showed  his  white  teeth, 
made  his  eyes  blaze,  and  spit  and  growled  and  snarled 
defiantly.  The  land-looker  didn't  quite  know  what  to 

[116] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
do.  His  section  line  lay  straight  across  the  deer's  body, 
and  he  did  not  want  to  leave  it  for  fear  of  confusing  his 
reckoning,  but  the  Kitten,  though  only  half  grown,  looked 
uncommonly  business-like.  He  had  no  gun,  nor  even  a 
revolver,  for  he  was  hunting  for  pine,  not  fresh  meat. 
He  had  left  his  half-axe  in  camp,  and  when  he  felt  in 
his  pocket  for  his  jack-knife  it  was  not  there.  Then  he 
looked  about  for  a  club.  He  had  been  told  that  lynxes 
always  had  very  thin  skulls,  and  that  a  light  blow  on  the 
back  of  the  head  was  enough  to  kill  the  biggest  and  fierc- 
est of  them,  let  alone  a  kitten.  But  he  couldn't  even 
find  a  stick  that  would  answer  his  purpose. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  when  they  had  stared  at  each  other  a 
minute  or  two  longer  without  coming  to  any  understand- 
ing, "  I  suppose  if  you  won't  turn  out  for  me,  I'll  have 
to  turn  out  for  you  " ;  and  he  made  a  careful  circuit  at  a 
respectful  distance,  picked  up  his  line  again,  and  went  on 
his  way. 

The  winter  dragged  on  very  slowly,  with  many  ups  and 
downs,  but  it  was  gone  at  last.  Summer  was  easier,  if 
only  because  he  was  not  obliged  to  use  up  any  of  his 
vitality  in  keeping  warm.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  was 
really  too  warm  for  comfort,  so  he  presently  changed  his 

[117] 


Forest  Neighbors 

coat  and  put  on  a  thinner  one.  People  like  to  talk  about 
the  coolness  of  the  deep  woods,  but  the  truth  is  that 
there  isn't  any  place  much  hotter  and  stuffier  than  a  dense 
growth  of  timber,  where  the  wind  never  comes,  and  where 
the  air  is  heavy  and  still.  And  then  there  are  the  wind- 
falls and  the  old  burnings,  where  the  sun  beats  fiercely 
down  among  the  fallen  trees  till  the  blackened  soil  is  hot 
as  a  city  pavement,  and  where  dead  trunks  and  half- 
burned  logs  lie  thrown  together  in  the  wildest  confusion 
— places  which  are  almost  impassable  for  men,  and  which 
even  the  land-lookers  avoid  whenever  they  can,  but  which 
a  cat  will  thread  as  readily  as  the  locomotive  follows  the 
rails.  These  were  the  localities  which  the  Kitten  was 
most  fond  of  frequenting,  and  here  his  youth  slipped 
rapidly  away.  He  was  fast  becoming  an  adult  lynx. 

The  summer  passed,  and  half  the  autumn ;  the  first 
snow  came  and  went,  and  again  the  Kitten  put  on  his 
winter  coat  of  gray,  with  the  white  underneath,  and  the 
dark  trimmings  up  and  down  his  legs  and  along  his  back. 
What  with  his  mustachios,  and  his  whiskers,  and  the 
tassels  on  his  ears,  he  was  a  very  presentable  young  lynx. 
It  would  be  many  years  before  he  could  hope  to  be  as 
large  and  powerful  as  his  father,  but,  nevertheless,  he  was 

[118] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
making  remarkably  good  progress.     And  the  time  was  at 
hand  when   he  would  need  both  his  good  looks  and  his 
muscle. 

Since  his  mother  had  left  him  he  had  seen  only  two  or 
three  lynxes,  and  those  were  all  much  older  and  larger 
than  he,  and  not  well  suited  to  be  his  companions.  But 
history  repeats  itself.  One  Indian-summer  afternoon  he 
was  tramping  along  the  northern  bank  of  the  Glimmer- 
glass,  just  as  his  father  had  done  two  years  before,  and 
as  he  rounded  a  bend  in  the  path  he  came  face  to  face 
with  someone  who  was  enough  like  him  to  have  been  his 
twin  sister.  And  they  did  as  his  parents  had  done,  stood 
still  for  a  minute  or  two  and  looked  at  each  other  as  if 
they  had  just  found  out  what  they  were  made  for.  After 
all,  life  is  something  more  than  hustling  for  a  living,  even 
in  the  woods. 

But  just  then  something  else  happened,  and  another 
ruling  passion  came  into  play — the  old  instinct  of  the 
chase,  which  neither  of  them  could  very  long  forget.  A 
faint  "  Quack,  quack,  quack,1'  came  up  from  the  lake,  and 
they  crept  to  the  edge  of  the  bank,  side  by  side,  and 
looked  down.  Above  them  the  trees  stood  dreamily 
motionless  in  the  mellow  sunshine.  Below  was  a  steep 

[119] 


Forest  Neighbors 

slope  of  ten  or  fifteen  feet;  beyond  it  a  tiny  strip  of 
sandy  beach,  and  then  the  quiet  water.  A  squadron  of 
ducks,  on  their  way  from  the  Arctic  Circle  to  the  Gulf, 
had  taken  stop-over  checks  for  the  Glimmerglass ;  and 
now  they  came  loitering  along  through  the  dead  bul- 
rushes, murmuring  gently,  in  soft,  mild  voices,  of  de- 
licious minnows  and  snails,  and  pausing  a  moment  now 
and  then  to  put  their  heads  under  and  dabble  in  the  mud 
for  some  particularly  choice  morsel.  The  lynxes  crouched 
and  waited,  while  their  stubby  tails  twitched  nervously, 
their  long,  narrow  pupils  grew  still  narrower,  and  their 
paws  fumbled  about  among  the  dry  pine-needles,  feeling 
for  the  very  best  footing  for  the  flying  leap.  The  ducks 
came  on,  still  prattling  pleasantly  over  their  own  private 
affairs.  Closer  and  closer  they  swam,  without  a  thought 
of  death  waiting  for  them  at  the  top  of  the  bank,  and 
suddenly  four  splendid  sets  of  muscles  jerked  like  bow- 
strings, four  long  hind-legs  straightened  with  a  mighty 
thrust  and  shove,  and  two  big  gray  creatures  shot  out 
from  the  brink  and  came  sailing  down  through  the  air 
with  their  heads  up,  their  tails  on  end,  their  eyes  blazing, 
and  their  forepaws  stretched  out  to  grab  the  nearest 
unhappy  duck.  The  flock  broke  up  with  frightened  cries 

[120] 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
and  a    wonderful  whirring  of  wings,  and  in    a    moment 
more  they  were  far  away  and  going  like  the  very  wind. 

But  two  of  its  members  stayed  behind,  and  presently 
the  lynxes  waded  out  on  the  beach  and  sat  down  to  eat 
their  supper  together.  They  talked  as  much  over  that 
meal  as  the  ducks  had  over  theirs,  but  the  lynx  language 
is  very  different  from  that  of  the  water-fowl.  Instead  of 
soft,  gentle  murmurings  there  were  low  growls  and  snarls 
as  the  long,  white  claws  and  teeth  tore  the  warm  red 
flesh  from  the  bones.  It  could  hardly  have  been  a  pleas- 
ant conversation  to  anyone  but  themselves,  but  I  sup- 
pose they  enjoyed  it  as  much  as  the  choicest  repartee. 
In  truth  they  had  good  reason  to  be  satisfied  and  con- 
tented with  themselves  and  each  other,  and  with  what 
they  had  just  done,  for  not  every  flying  leap  is  so  success- 
ful, and  not  every  duck  is  as  plump  and  juicy  as  the  two 
that  they  were  discussing.  So  they  talked  on  in  angry, 
threatening  tones,  that  sounded  like  quarrelling,  but  that 
really  meant  only  a  fierce,  savage  kind  of  pleasure ;  and 
when  the  meal  was  ended,  and  the  very  last  shred  of  duck  - 
flesh  had  disappeared,  they  washed  their  faces,  and  purred, 
and  lay  still  a  while  to  visit  and  get  acquainted. 

There   were  many   other   meetings    during   the   weeks 
[121] 


Forest  Neighbors 

that  followed — some  under  as  pleasant  circumstances  as 
the  first,  and  some  not.  Perhaps  the  best  were  those  of 
the  clear,  sharp  days  of  early  winter,  when  the  sky  was 
blue,  and  the  sunshine  was  bright,  and  a  thin  carpet  of 
fine,  dry  snow  covered  the  floor  of  the  forest.  It  was 
cold,  of  course ;  but  they  were  young  and  strong  and 
healthy,  and  their  fur  was  thick  and  warm,  like  the  gar- 
ments of  a  Canadian  girl.  The  keen  air  set  the  live 
blood  leaping  and  dancing,  and  they  frisked  and  frolicked, 
and  romped  and  played,  and  rolled  each  other  over  and 
over  in  the  snow,  and  were  as  wildly  and  deliciously  happy 
as  it  is  ever  given  to  two  animals  to  be. 

It  was  too  good  to  last  long  without  some  kind  of  an 
interruption,  and  one  glorious  winter  evening,  when  the 
full  moon  was  flooding  the  woods  with  the  white  light 
that  brings  a  touch  of  madness,  a  third  young  lynx  came 
upon  the  scene.  And  then  there  was  trouble.  The 
Kitten's  new  friend  sat  back  in  the  bushes  and  looked  on, 
while  he  and  his  rival  squatted  face  to  face  in  the  snow 
and  sassed  each  other  to  the  utmost  limits  of  the  lynx 
vocabulary,  their  voices  rising  and  falling  in  a  hideous 
duet,  and  their  eyes  gleaming  and  glowing  with  a  pale, 
yellow-green  fire.  Presently  there  was  a  rush,  and  the 


The  Strenuous  Life  of  a  Canada  Lynx 
fur  began  to  fly.  The  snow  flew,  too ;  and  the  woods 
rang  and  rang  again  with  yelling  and  caterwauling,  and 
spitting  and  swearing,  and  all  manner  of  abuse.  The 
rabbits  heard  it,  and  trembled ;  and  the  partridges,  down 
in  the  cedar  swamp,  glanced  furtively  over  their  shoul- 
ders and  were  glad  it  was  no  nearer.  They  bit  and 
scratched  and  clawed  like  two  little  devils,  and  the  on- 
looker in  the  bushes  must  have  felt  a  thrill  of  pride  over 
the  strenuous  way  in  which  they  strove  for  her  favors. 
First  one  was  on  top,  and  then  the  other.  Now  our 
Kitten  had  his  rival  by  the  ears,  and  now  by  the  tail. 
One  minute  heads,  legs,  and  bodies  were  all  mixed  up  in 
such  a  snarl  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  could  never  be  un- 
tangled, and  the  next  they  backed  off  just  long  enough 
to  catch  their  breath,  and  then  flew  at  each  other's 
throats  more  savagely  than  ever.  It  was  really  more 
difficult  than  you  would  suppose  for  either  of  them  to  get 
a  good  hold  of  the  other,  partly  because  their  fur  was  so 
thick,  and  partly  because  Nature  had  purposely  made 
their  skins  very  loose,  with  an  eye  to  just  such  perform- 
ances as  this.  But  they  managed  to  do  a  good  deal  of 
damage,  nevertheless ;  and  in  the  end  the  pretender  was 
thoroughly  whipped,  and  fled  away  in  disgrace  down  the 

[123] 


Forest  Neighbors 

long,  snowy  aisles  of  the  forest,  howling  as  he  went,  while 
the  Kitten  turned  slowly  and  painfully  to  the  one  who 
was  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  unpleasantness.  His  ears 
were  slit ;  one  eye  was  shut,  and  the  lid  of  the  other 
hung  very  low ;  he  limped  badly  with  his  right  hind-leg, 
and  many  were  the  wounds  and  scratches  along  his  breast 
and  sides.  But  he  didn't  care.  He  had  won  his  spurs. 

The  story  of  the  Kitten  is  told,  for  he  was  a  kitten  no 
longer. 


[124] 


POINTERS    FROM    A    PORCUPINE 
QUILL 


POINTERS   FROM    A    PORCUPINE   QUILL 

JiE  wasn't  handsome — the  original  owner  of  this  quill 
— and  I  can't  say  that  he  was  very  smart.  He  was  only 
a  slow-witted,  homely  old  porky  who  once  lived  by  the 
Glimmerglass.  But  in  spite  of  his  slow  wits  and  his 
homeliness  a  great  many  things  happened  to  him  in  the 
course  of  his  life. 

He  was  born  in  a  hollow  hemlock  log,  on  a  wild  April 
morning,  when  the  north  wind  was  whipping  the  lake 
with  snow,  and  when  winter  seemed  to  have  come  back 
for  a  season.  The  Glimmerglass  was  neither  glimmering 
nor  glassy  that  morning,  but  he  and  his  mother  were 
snug  and  warm  in  their  wooden  nest,  and  they  cared  lit- 
tle for  the  storm  that  was  raging  outside. 

It  has  been  said  by  some  that  porcupines  lay  eggs,  the 
hard,  smooth  shells  of  which  are  furnished  by  a  kind  and 
thoughtful  Providence  for  the  protection  of  the  mothers 
from  their  prickly  offspring  until  the  latter  have  fairly 
begun  their  independent  existence.  Other  people  say 
that  two  babies  invariably  arrive  at  once,  and  that  one 

[127] 


Forest  Neighbors 

of  them  is  always  dead  before  it  is  born.  But  when  my 
Porcupine  discovered  America  he  had  neither  a  shell  on 
his  back  nor  a  dead  twin  brother  by  his  side.  Neither 
was  he  prickly.  He  was  covered  all  over  with  soft,  furry, 
dark -brown  hair.  If  you  had  searched  carefully  along 
the  middle  of  his  back  you  might  possibly  have  found 
the  points  of  the  first  quills,  just  peeping  through  the 
skin ;  but  as  yet  the  thick  fur  hid  them  from  sight  and 
touch  unless  you  knew  just  where  and  how  to  look  for 
them. 

He  was  a  very  large  baby,  larger  even  than  a  new-born 
bear  cub,  and  no  doubt  his  mother  felt  a  justifiable  pride 
in  his  size  and  his  general  peartness.  She  was  certainly 
very  careful  of  him  and  very  anxious  for  his  safety,  for 
she  kept  him  out  of  sight,  and  no  one  ever  saw  him 
during  those  first  days  and  weeks  of  his  babyhood.  She 
did  not  propose  to  have  any  lynxes  or  wild-cats  or  other 
ill-disposed  neighbors  fondling  him  until  his  quills  were 
grown.  After  that  they  might  give  him  as  many  love- 
pats  as  they  pleased. 

He  grew  rapidly,  as  all  porcupine  babies  do.  Long 
hairs,  tipped  with  yellowish-white,  came  out  through  the 
dense  fur,  and  by  and  by  the  quills  began  to  show.  His 

[128] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

teeth  were  lengthening,  tco,  as  his  mother  very  well  knew, 
and  between  the  sharp  things  in  his  mouth  and  those  on 
his  back  and  sides  he  was  fast  becoming  a  very  formi- 
dable nursling.  Before  he  was  two  months  old  she  was 
forced  to  wean  him,  but  by  that  time  he  was  quite  able 
to  travel  down  to  the  beach  and  feast  on  the  tender  lily- 
pads  and  arrow-head  leaves  that  grew  in  the  shallow 
water,  within  easy  reach  from  fallen  and  half-submerged 
tree-trunks. 

One  June  day,  as  he  and  his  mother  were  fishing  for 
lily -pads,  each  of  them  out  on  the  end  of  a  big  log,  a  boy 
came  down  the  steep  bank  that  rose  almost  from  the 
water's  edge.  He  wasn't  a  very  attractive  boy.  His 
clothes  were  dirty  and  torn — and  so  was  his  face.  His 
hat  was  gone,  and  his  hair  had  not  seen  a  comb  for 
weeks.  The  mosquitoes  and  black -flies  and  no-see-'ems 
had  bitten  him  until  his  skin  was  covered  with  blotches 
and  his  eyelids  were  so  swollen  that  he  could  hardly  see. 
And  worst  of  all,  he  looked  as  if  he  were  dying  of  starva- 
tion. There  was  almost  nothing  left  of  him  but  skin  and 
bones,  and  his  clothing  hung  upon  him  as  it  would  on  a 
framework  of  sticks.  If  the  Porcupine  could  have  philos- 
ophized about  it  he  would  probably  have  said  that  this 

[129] 


Forest  Neighbors 

was  the  wrong  time  of  year  for  starving ;  and  from  his 
point  of  view  he  would  have  been  right.  June,  in  the 
woods,  is  the  season  of  plenty  for  everybody  but  man. 
Man  thinks  he  must  have  wheat- flour,  and  that  doesn't 
grow  on  pines  or  maple- trees,  nor  yet  in  the  tamarack 
swamp.  But  was  there  any  wild,  fierce  glare  in  the  boy's 
eyes,  such  a  light  of  hunger  as  the  story-books  tell  us 
is  to  be  seen  in  the  eyes  of  the  wolf  and  the  lynx  when 
they  have  not  eaten  for  days  and  days,  and  when  the 
snow  lies  deep  in  the  forest,  and  famine  comes  stalking 
through  the  trees  ?  I  don't  think  so.  He  was  too  weak 
and  miserable  to  do  any  glaring,  and  his  stomach  was 
aching  so  hard  from  eating  green  gooseberries  that  he 
could  scarcely  think  of  anything  else. 

But  his  face  brightened  a  very  little  when  he  saw  the 
old  she-porcupine,  and  he  picked  up  a  heavy  stick  and 
waded  out  beside  her  log.  She  clacked  her  teeth  to- 
gether angrily  as  he  approached ;  but  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion, so  she  drew  herself  into  a  ball,  with  her  head  down 
and  her  nose  covered  by  her  forepaws.  Reaching  across 
her  back  and  down  on  each  side  was  a  belt  or  girdle  of 
quills,  the  largest  and  heaviest  on  her  whole  body,  which 
could  be  erected  at  will,  and  now  they  stood  as  straight 

[130] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 
as  young  spruce-trees.  Their  tips  were  dark-brown,  but 
the  rest  of  their  length  was  nearly  white,  and  when  you 
looked  at  her  from  behind  she  seemed  to  have  a  pointed 
white  ruffle,  edged  with  black,  tied  around  the  middle  of 
her  body.  But  the  boy  wasn't  thinking  about  ruffles, 
and  he  didn't  care  what  she  did  with  her  quills.  He 
gave  her  such  a  thrust  with  his  stick  that  she  had  to 
grab  at  the  log  with  both  hands  to  keep  from  being 
shoved  into  the  water.  That  left  her  nose  unprotected, 
and  he  brought  the  stick  down  across  it  once,  twice,  three 
times.  Then  he  picked  her  up  by  one  foot,  very  gin- 
gerly, and  carried  her  off;  and  our  Porky  never  saw  his 
mother  again. 

Perhaps  we  had  best  follow  her  up  and  see  what  finally 
became  of  her.  Half  a  mile  from  the  scene  of  the  mur- 
der the  boy  came  upon  a  woman  and  a  little  girl.  I 
sha'n't  try  to  describe  them,  except  to  say  that  they  were 
even  worse  off  than  he.  Perhaps  you  read  in  the  papers, 
some  years  ago,  about  the  woman  and  the  two  children 
who  were  lost  for  several  weeks  in  the  woods  of  northern 
Michigan. 

"  I've  got  a  porky,"  said  the  boy. 

He  dropped  his  burden  on  the  ground,  and  they  all 
[131] 


Forest  Neighbors 

stood  around  and  looked  at  it.  They  were  hungry — oh, 
so  hungry  ! — but  for  some  reason  they  did  not  seem  very 
eager  to  begin.  An  old  porcupine  with  her  clothes  on 
is  not  the  most  attractive  of  feasts,  and  they  had  no 
knife  with  which  to  skin  her,  no  salt  to  season  the  meat, 
no  fire  to  cook  it,  and  no  matches  with  which  to  start 
one.  Rubbing  two  sticks  together  is  a  very  good  way  of 
starting  a  fire  when  you  are  in  a  book,  but  it  doesn't  work 
very  well  in  the  Great  Tahquamenon  Swamp.  And  yet, 
somehow  or  other — I  don't  know  how,  and  I  don't  want 
to — they  ate  that  porcupine.  And  it  did  them  good. 
When  the  searchers  found  them,  a  week  or  two  later,  the 
woman  and  the  boy  were  dead,  but  the  little  girl  was 
still  alive,  and  for  all  I  know  she  is  living  to  this  day. 

Let  us  return  to  the  Glimmerglass.  The  young  Por- 
cupine ought  to  have  mourned  deeply  for  his  mother,  but 
I  grieve  to  say  that  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  doubt 
if  he  was  even  very  lonesome.  His  brain  was  smaller, 
smoother,  and  less  corrugated  than  yours  is  supposed  to 
be  ;  its  wrinkles  were  few  and  not  very  deep  ;  and  it  may 
be  that  the  bump  of  filial  affection  was  quite  polished,  or 
even  that  there  wasn't  any  such  bump  at  all.  Anyhow, 
he  got  along  very  well  without  her,  dispensing  with  her 

[132] 


*s\ 


High   up  in  the  top  of  a  tall  hemlock." 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

much  more  easily  than  the  woman  and  the  boy  and  girl 
could  have.  He  watched  stolidly  while  the  boy  killed 
her  and  carried  her  off,  and  a  little  later  he  was  eating 
lily-pads  again. 

As  far  as  his  future  prospects  were  concerned,  he  had 
little  reason  for  worrying.  He  knew  pretty  well  how  to 
take  care  of  himself,  for  that  is  a  kind  of  knowledge  which 
comes  early  to  young  porcupines.  Really,  there  wasn't 
much  to  learn.  His  quills  would  protect  him  from  most 
of  his  enemies,  if  not  from  all  of  them  ;  and,  what  was 
still  better,  he  need  never  suffer  from  a  scarcity  of  food. 
Of  all  the  animals  in  the  woods  the  porcupine  is  prob- 
ably the  safest  from  starvation,  for  he  can  eat  anything 
from  the  soft  green  leaves  of  the  water-plants  to  the  bark 
and  the  small  twigs  of  the  tallest  hemlock.  Summer  and 
winter,  his  storehouse  is  always  full.  The  young  lions 
may  lack,  and  suffer  hunger,  and  seek  their  meat  from 
God ;  but  the  young  porky  has  only  to  climb  a  tree  and 
set  his  teeth  at  work.  All  the  woods  are  his  huckle- 
berry. 

And,  by  the  way,  our  Porcupine's  teeth  were  a  great 
institution,  especially  the  front  ones,  and  were  well 
worthy  of  a  somewhat  detailed  description.  They  were 

[133] 


Forest  Neighbors 

long  and  sharp  and  yellow,  and  there  were  two  in  the. 
upper  jaw  and  two  in  the  lower,  with  a  wide  gap  on  each 
side  between  them  and  the  molars.  They  kept  right  on 
growing  as  long  as  he  lived,  and  there  is  no  telling  how 
far  they  would  have  gone  if  there  had  been  nothing  to 
stop  them.  Fortunately,  he  did  a  great  deal  of  eating 
and  chewing,  and  the  constant  friction  kept  them  worn 
down,  and  at  the  same  time  served  to  sharpen  them. 
Like  a  beaver's,  they  were  formed  of  thin  shells  of  hard 
enamel  in  front,  backed  up  by  softer  pulp  behind ;  and 
of  course  the  soft  parts  wore  away  first,  and  left  the 
enamel  projecting  in  sharp,  chisel-like  edges  that  could 
gnaw  crumbs  from  a  hickory  axe-handle. 

The  next  few  months  were  pleasant  ones,  with  plenty 
to  eat,  and  nothing  to  do  but  keep  his  jaws  going.  By 
and  by  the  leaves  began  to  fall,  and  whenever  the  Porky 
walked  abroad  they  rustled  around  him  like  silk  skirts 
going  down  the  aisle  of  a  church.  A  little  later  the 
beechnuts  came  down  from  the  sky,  and  he  feasted  more 
luxuriously  than  ever.  His  four  yellow  chisels  tore  the 
brown  shells  open,  his  molars  ground  the  sweet  kernels 
into  meal,  and  he  ate  and  ate  till  his  short  legs  could 
hardly  keep  his  fat  little  belly  off  the  ground. 

[134] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

Then  came  the  first  light  snow,  and  his  feet  left  tracks 
which  bore  a  faint  resemblance  to  a  baby's — that  is,  if 
your  imagination  was  sufficiently  vigorous.  The  snow 
grew  deeper  and  deeper,  and  after  a  while  he  had  to  fairly 
plough  his  way  from  the  hollow  log  to  the  tree  where 
he  took  his  meals.  It  was  hard  work,  for  his  clumsy  legs 
were  not  made  for  wading,  and  at  every  step  he  had  to 
lift  and  drag  himself  forward,  and  then  let  his  body  drop 
while  he  shifted  his  feet.  A  porcupine's  feet  will  not  go 
of  themselves,  the  way  other  animals'  do.  They  have  to 
be  picked  up  one  at  a  time  and  lifted  forward  as  far  as 
they  can  reach — not  very  far  at  the  best,  for  they  are 
fastened  to  the  ends  of  very  short  legs.  It  almost  seems 
as  if  he  could  run  faster  if  he  could  drop  them  off  and 
leave  them  behind.  One  evening,  when  the  snow  was  be- 
ginning to  freeze  again  after  a  thawing  day,  he  lay  down 
to  rest  for  a  few  minutes  ;  and  when  he  started  on,  some  of 
his  quills  were  fast  in  the  hardening  crust  and  had  to  be 
left  behind.  But  no  matter  how  difficult  the  walk  might 
be,  there  was  always  a  good  square  meal  at  the  end  of  it, 
and  he  pushed  valiantly  on  till  he  reached  his  dinner- 
table. 

Sometimes  he  stayed  in  the  same  tree  for  several  days 
[135] 


Forest  Neighbors 

at  a  time,  quenching  his  thirst  with  snow,  and  sleeping  in 
a  crotch. 

He  was  not  by  any  means  the  only  porcupine  in  the 
woods  around  the  Glimmerglass,  although  weeks  some- 
times passed  without  his  seeing  any  of  his  relations.  At 
other  times  there  were  from  one  to  half  a  dozen  porkies 
in  the  trees  close  by,  and  when  they  happened  to  feel  like 
it  they  would  call  back  and  forth  to  each  other  in  queer, 
harsh,  and  often  querulous  voices. 

One  afternoon,  when  he  and  another  porcupine  were 
occupying  trees  next  each  other,  two  land-lookers  came 
along  and  camped  for  the  night  between  them.  Earlier 
in  the  day  the  men  had  crossed  the  trail  of  a  pack  of 
wolves,  and  they  talked  of  it  as  they  cut  their  firewood, 
and,  with  all  the  skill  of  the  voyageurs  of  old,  cooked 
their  scanty  supper,  and  made  their  bed  of  balsam  boughs. 
The  half-breed  was  much  afraid  that  they  would  have 
visitors  before  morning,  but  the  white  man  only  laughed 
at  the  idea. 

The  meal  was  hardly  finished  when  they  lay  down 
between  their  blankets — the  white  man  to  sleep,  and  the 
half-breed  to  listen,  listen,  listen  for  the  coming  of  the 
wolves.  Beyond  the  camp-fire's  little  circle  of  ruddy 

[136] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 
light,  vague  shadows  moved  mysteriously,  as  if  living 
things  were  prowling  about  among  the  trees  and  only 
waiting  for  him  to  fall  asleep.  Yet  there  was  no  wolf- 
howl  to  be  heard,  nor  anything  else  to  break  the  silence 
of  the  winter  night,  save  possibly  the  dropping  of  a  dead 
branch,  or  the  splitting  open  of  a  tree-trunk,  torn  apart 
by  the  frost.  And  by  and  by,  in  spite  of  himself,  the 
half-breed's  eyelids  began  to  droop. 

But  somebody  else  was  awake — awake,  and  tempted 
with  a  great  temptation.  The  porcupine — not  ours,  but 
the  other  one — had  caught  the  fragrance  of  coffee  and 
bacon.  Here  were  new  odors — different  from  anything 
that  had  ever  before  tickled  his  nostrils — strange,  but 
indescribably  delicious.  He  waited  till  the  land-lookers 
were  snoring,  and  then  he  started  down  the  tree.  Half- 
way to  the  ground  he  encountered  the  cloud  of  smoke 
that  rose  from  the  camp-fire.  Here  was  another  new 
odor,  but  with  nothing  pleasant  about  it.  It  stung  his 
nostrils  and  made  his  eyes  smart,  and  he  scrambled  up 
again  as  fast  as  he  could  go,  his  claws  and  quills  rattling 
on  the  bark.  The  half-breed  woke  with  a  start.  He  had 
heard  something — he  was  sure  he  had — the  wolves  were 
coming,  and  he  gave  the  white  man  a  punch  in  the  ribs. 

[137] 


Forest  Neighbors 

"  Wake  up,  wake  up,  m'shoor ! "  he  whispered,  ex- 
citedly. "  The  wolves  are  coming.  I  can  hear  them  on 
the  snow." 

The  white  man  was  up  in  a  twinkling,  but  by  that 
time  the  porcupine  had  settled  himself  in  a  crotch,  out 
of  reach  of  the  smoke,  and  the  woods  were  silent  again. 
The  two  listened  with  all  their  ears,  but  there  was  not  a 
sound  to  be  heard. 

"  You  must  have  been  dreaming,  Louis." 

The  half-breed  insisted  that  he  had  really  heard  the 
patter  of  the  wolves'  feet  on  the  snow-crust,  but  the  tim- 
ber cruiser  laughed  at  him,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  again. 
An  hour  later  the  performance  was  repeated,  and  this 
time  the  white  man  was  angry. 

"Don't  you  wake  me  up  again,  Louis.  You're  so 
rattled  you  don't  know  what  you're  doing." 

Louis  was  silenced,  but  not  convinced,  and  he  did  not 
let  himself  go  to  sleep  again.  The  fire  was  dying  down, 
and  little  by  little  the  smoke-cloud  grew  thinner  and 
thinner  until  it  disappeared  entirely.  Then  the  half- 
breed  heard  the  same  sound  once  more,  but  from  the 
tree  overhead,  and  not  from  across  the  snow.  He  waited 
and  watched,  and  presently  a  dark-brown  animal,  two 

[138] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

or  three  feet  in  length  and  about  the  shape  of  an  egg, 
came  scrambling  cautiously  down  the  trunk.  The  porky 
reached  the  ground  in  safety,  and  searched  among  the 
tin  plates  and  the  knives  and  forks  until  he  found  a  piece 
of  bacon  rind  ;  but  he  got  just  one  taste  of  it,  and  then 
Louis  hit  him  over  the  head  with  a  club.  Next  morning 
the  land-lookers  had  porcupine  soup  for  breakfast,  and 
they  told  me  afterward  that  it  was  very  good  indeed. 

Our  Porky  had  seen  it  all.  He  waited  till  the  men 
had  tramped  away  through  the  woods,  with  their  packs 
on  their  backs  and  their  snow-shoes  on  their  feet,  and 
then  he,  too,  came  down  from  his  tree  on  a  tour  of  investi- 
gation. His  friend's  skin  lay  on  the  snow  not  very  far 
away — if  you  had  pulled  the  quills  and  the  longer  hairs 
out  of  it,  it  would  have  made  the  pelt  which  the  old 
fur-traders  sometimes  sold  under  the  name  of  "  spring 
beaver " — but  he  paid  no  attention  to  it.  The  bacon 
rind  was  what  interested  him  most,  and  he  chewed  and 
gnawed  at  it  with  a  relish  that  an  epicure  might  have 
envied.  It  was  the  first  time  in  all  his  gluttonous  little 
life  that  he  had  ever  tasted  the  flavor  of  salt  or  wood- 
smoke ;  and  neither  lily-pads,  nor  beechnuts,  nor  berries, 
nor  anything  else  in  all  the  woods  could  compare  with  it. 

[139] 


Forest  Neighbors 

Life  was  worth  living,  if  only  for  this  one  experience  ; 
and  it  may  be  that  he  stowed  a  dim  memory  of  it  away 
in  some  dark  corner  of  his  brain,  and  hoped  that  fortune 
would  some  day  be  good  to  him  and  send  him  another 
rind. 

The  long,  long  winter  dragged  slowly  on,  the  snow 
piled  up  higher  and  deeper,  and  the  cold  grew  sharper 
and  keener.  Night  after  night  the  pitiless  stars  seemed 
sucking  every  last  bit  of  warmth  out  of  the  old  earth  and 
leaving  it  dead  and  frozen  forever.  Those  were  the 
nights  when  the  rabbits  came  out  of  their  burrows  and 
stamped  up  and  down  their  runways  for  hours  at  a  time, 
trying  by  exercise  to  keep  from  freezing  to  death,  and 
when  the  deer  dared  not  lie  down  to  sleep.  And  hunger 
came  with  the  cold  and  the  deep  snow.  The  buck  and 
the  doe  had  to  live  on  hemlock  twigs  till  they  grew  thin 
and  poor.  The  partridges  were  buried  in  the  drifting 
snow,  and  starved  to  death.  The  lynxes  and  the  wild- 
cats hunted  and  hunted  and  hunted,  and  found  no  prey; 
and  it  was  well  for  the  bears  and  the  woodchucks  that 
they  could  sleep  all  winter  and  did  not  need  food.  Only 
the  Porcupine  had  plenty  and  to  spare.  Starvation  had 
no  terrors  for  him. 

[140] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 
But  the  hanger  of  another  may  mean  danger  for  us,  as 
the  Porcupine  discovered.  In  ordinary  times  most  of  the 
animals  let  him  severely  alone.  They  knew  better  than  to 
tackle  such  a  living  pin-cushion  as  he  ;  and  if  any  of  them 
ever  did  try  it,  one  touch  was  generally  enough.  But 
when  you  are  ready  to  perish  with  hunger,  you  will  take 
risks  which  at  other  times  you  would  not  even  think 
about ;  and  so  it  happened  that  one  February  afternoon, 
as  the  Porky  was  trundling  himself  deliberately  over  the 
snow-crust,  a  fierce-looking  animal  with  dark  fur,  bushy 
tail,  and  pointed  nose  sprang  at  him  from  behind  a  tree 
and  tried  to  catch  him  by  the  throat,  where  the  quills 
did  not  grow,  and  there  was  nothing  but  soft,  warm  fur. 
The  Porcupine  knew  just  what  to  do  in  such  a  case,  and 
he  promptly  made  himself  into  a  prickly  ball,  very  much 
as  his  mother  had  done  seven  or  eight  months  before, 
with  his  face  down,  and  his  quills  sticking  out  de- 
fiantly. But  this  time  his  scheme  of  defence  did  not 
work  as  well  as  usual,  for  the  sharp  little  nose  dug  into 
the  snow  and  wriggled  its  way  closer  and  closer  to  where 
the  jugular  vein  was  waiting  to  be  tapped.  That  fisher 
must  have  understood  his  business,  for  he  had  chosen  the 
one  and  only  way  by  which  a  porcupine  may  be  success- 

[141] 


Forest  Neighbors 

fully  attacked.  For  once  in  his  life  our  friend  was  really 
scared.  Another  inch,  and  the  fisher  would  have  won 
the  game,  but  he  was  in  such  a  hurry  that  he  grew  care- 
less and  reckless,  and  did  not  notice  that  he  had  wheeled 
half-way  round,  and  that  his  hind-quarters  were  along- 
side the  Porcupine's.  Now,  sluggish  and  slow  though  a 
porky  may  be,  there  is  one  of  his  members  that  is  as  quick 
as  a  steel  trap,  and  that  is  his  tail.  Something  hit  the 
fisher  a  whack  on  his  flank,  and  he  gave  a  cry  of  pain 
and  fury,  and  jumped  back  with  half  a  dozen  spears  stick- 
ing in  his  flesh.  He  must  have  quite  lost  his  head  dur- 
ing the  next  few  seconds,  for  before  he  knew  it  his  face 
also  had  come  within  reach  of  that  terrible  tail  and  its 
quick,  vicious  jerks.  That  ended  the  battle,  and  he  fled 
away  across  the  snow,  almost  mad  with  the  agony  in  his 
nose,  his  eyes,  his  forehead,  and  his  left  flank.  As  for 
the  Porky,  he  made  for  the  nearest  tree  as  fast  as  he 
could  go,  hardly  trusting  in  his  great  deliverance.  And 
I  don't  believe  there  is  any  sight  in  all  the  Great  Tah- 
quamenon  Swamp  much  funnier  than  a  porky  in  a  hurry 
— a  porky  who  has  really  made  up  his  mind  that  he  is 
in  danger  and  must  hustle  for  dear  life.  He  is  the  very 
personification  of  haste  and  a  desire  to  go  somewhere 

[142] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 
quick,  and   he  picks   his  feet  up  and  puts  them  down 
again  as  fast  as  ever  he  can  ;  and  yet,  no  matter  how 
hard  he  works,  his  legs  are  so  short  and  his  body  so  fat 
that  he  can't  begin  to  travel  as  fast  as  he  wants  to. 

Another  day  the  lynx  tried  it,  and  fared  even  worse  than 
the  fisher — not  the  Canada  lynx,  with  whom  we  are  already 
somewhat  acquainted,  but  the  bay  lynx.  The  fisher  had 
had  some  sense,  and  would  probably  have  succeeded  if  he 
had  been  a  little  more  careful,  but  the  lynx  was  a  fool. 
He  didn't  know  the  very  first  thing  about  the  proper 
way  to  hunt  porcupines,  and  he  ought  never  to  have 
tried  it  at  all,  but  he  was  literally  starving,  and  the 
temptation  was  too  much  for  him.  Here  was  something 
alive,  something  that  had  warm  red  blood  in  its  veins 
and  a  good  thick  layer  of  flesh  over  its  bones,  and  that 
was  too  slow  to  get  away  from  him ;  and  he  sailed  right 
in,  tooth  and  claw,  regardless  of  the  consequences.  Im- 
mediately he  forgot  all  about  the  Porcupine,  and  his  own 
hunger,  and  everything  else  but  the  terrible  pain  in  his 
face  and  his  forepaws.  He  made  the  woods  fairly  ring 
with  his  howls,  and  he  jumped  up  and  down  on  the 
snow-crust,  rubbing  his  head  with  his  paws,  and  driving 
the  little  barbed  spears  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  flesh. 

[143] 


Forest  Neighbors 

And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  ceased  his  leaping  and 
bounding  and  howling,  and  dropped  on  the  snow  in  a 
limp,  lifeless  heap,  dead  as  last  summer's  lily-pads.  One 
of  the  quills  had  driven  straight  through  his  left  eye  and 
into  his  brain.  Was  it  any  wonder  if  in  time  the  Por. 
cupine  came  to  think  himself  invulnerable  ? 

Even  a  northern  Michigan  winter  has  its  ending,  and 
at  last  there  came  an  evening  when  all  the  porcupines 
in  the  woods  around  the  Glimmerglass  were  calling  to 
each  other  from  one  tree  to  another.  They  couldn't 
help  it.  There  was  something  in  the  air  that  stirred 
them  to  a  vague  restlessness  and  uneasiness,  and  our  own 
particular  Porky  sat  up  in  the  top  of  a  tall  hemlock 
and  sang.  Not  like  Jenny  Lind,  nor  like  a  thrush  or  a 
nightingale,  but  his  harsh  voice  went  squealing  up  and 
down  the  scale  in  a  way  that  was  all  his  own,  without 
time  or  rhythm  or  melody,  in  the  wildest,  strangest  music 
that  ever  woke  the  silent  woods.  I  don't  believe  that  he 
himself  quite  knew  what  he  meant  or  why  he  did  it. 
Certainly  no  one  else  could  have  told,  unless  some  wan- 
dering Indian  or  trapper  may  have  heard  the  queer  voices 
and  prophesied  that  a  thaw  was  coming. 

The  thaw  arrived  next  day,  and  it  proved  to  be  the 
[144] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

beginning  of  spring.  The  summer  followed  as  fast  as  it 
could,  and  again  the  lily-pads  were  green  and  succulent 
in  the  shallow  water  along  the  edge  of  the  Glimmerglass, 
and  again  the  Porcupine  wandered  down  to  the  beach  to 
feed  upon  them,  discarding  for  a  time  his  winter  diet  of 
bark  and  twigs.  Why  should  one  live  on  rye-bread 
when  one  can  have  cake  and  ice-cream  ? 

And  there  among  the  bulrushes,  one  bright  June 
morning,  he  had  a  fight  with  one  of  his  own  kind.  Just 
as  he  was  approaching  his  favorite  log,  two  other  porcu- 
pines appeared,  coming  from  different  directions,  one  a 
male,  and  the  other  a  female.  They  all  scrambled  out 
upon  the  log,  one  after  another,  but  it  soon  became  evi- 
dent that  three  was  a  crowd.  Our  Porky  and  the  other 
bachelor  could  not  agree  at  all.  They  both  wanted  the 
same  place  and  the  same  lily-pads,  and  in  a  little  while 
they  were  pushing  and  shoving  and  growling  and  snarling 
with  all  their  might,  each  doing  his  best  to  drive  the 
other  off  the  log  and  into  the  water.  They  did  not  bite 
— perhaps  they  had  agreed  that  teeth  like  theirs  were  too 
cruel  to  be  used  in  civilized  warfare— but  they  struggled 
and  chattered  and  swore  at  each  other,  and  made  all  sorts 
of  queer  noises  while  they  fought  their  funny  little  battle 

[145] 


Forest  Neighbors 

ill  the  funnier  because  each  of  them  had  to  look  out 
for  the  other's  quills.  If  either  had  happened  to  push  the 
wrong  way,  they  might  both  have  been  in  serious  trouble. 
It  did  not  last  long.  Our  Porky  was  the  stronger,  and 
his  rival  was  driven  backward  little  by  little  till  he  lost 
his  hold  completely  and  slipped  into  the  lake.  He  came 
to  the  surface  at  once,  and  quickly  swam  to  the  shore, 
where  he  chattered  angrily  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then, 
like  the  sensible  bachelor  that  he  was,  wandered  off  up 
the  beach  in  search  of  other  worlds  more  easily  conquered. 
There  was  peace  on  our  Porky 's  log,  and  the  lily -pads 
that  grew  beside  it  had  never  been  as  fresh  and  juicy  as 
they  were  that  morning. 

Two  months  later,  on  a  hot  August  afternoon,  I  was 
paddling  along  the  edge  of  the  Glimmerglass  in  company 
with  a  friend  of  mine,  each  of  us  in  a  small  dug-out 
canoe,  when  we  found  the  Porky  asleep  in  the  sunshine. 
He  was  lying  on  the  nearly  horizontal  trunk  of  a  tree 
whose  roots  had  been  undermined  by  the  waves  till  it 
leaned  far  out  over  the  lake,  hardly  a  foot  from  the 
water. 

My  friend,  by  the  way,  is  the  foreman  of  a  lumber- 
camp.  He  has  served  in  the  British  army,  has  hunted 

[146] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

whales  off  the  coast  of  Greenland,  married  a  wife  in 
Grand  Rapids,  and  run  a  street-car  in  Chicago ;  and  now 
he  is  snaking  logs  out  of  the  Michigan  woods.  He  is 
quite  a  chunk  of  a  man,  tall  and  decidedly  well  set  up, 
and  it  would  take  a  pretty  good  prize-fighter  to  whip 
him,  but  he  learned  that  day  that  a  porcupine  at  close 
quarters  is  worse  than  a  trained  pugilist. 

"  Look  at  that  porky,"  he  called  to  me.  "  I'm  going 
to  ram  the  canoe  into  the  tree  and  knock  him  off  into 
the  water.  Just  you  watch,  and  you'll  see  some  fun." 

I  was  somewhat  uncertain  whether  the  joke  would 
ultimately  be  on  the  Porcupine  or  the  man,  but  it  was 
pretty  sure  to  be  worth  seeing,  one  way  or  the  other,  so 
I  laid  my  paddle  down  and  awaited  developments.  Bang ! 
went  the  nose  of  the  dug-out  against  the  tree,  and  the 
Porcupine  dropped,  but  not  into  the  water.  He  landed 
in  the  bow  of  the  canoe,  and  the  horrified  look  on  my 
friend's  face  was  a  delight  to  see.  The  Porky  was  wide 
awake  by  this  time,  for  I  could  hear  his  teeth  clacking  as 
he  advanced  to  the  attack. 

"  Great  Scott !     He's  coming  straight  at  me  ! " 

The  Porcupine  was  certainly  game.  I  saw  the  paddle 
rise  in  the  air  and  come  down  with  a  tremendous  whack, 

[147] 


Forest  Neighbors 

but  it  seemed  to  have  little  effect.  The  Porky 's  coat  of 
quills  and  hair  was  so  thick  that  a  blow  on  the  back  did 
not  trouble  him  much.  If  my  friend  could  have  hit  him 
across  the  nose  it  would  have  ended  the  matter  then  and 
there,  but  the  canoe  was  too  narrow  and  its  sides  too  high 
for  a  crosswise  stroke.  He  tried  thrusting,  but  that  was 
no  better.  When  a  good-si/ed  porcupine  has  really  made 
up  his  mind  to  go  somewhere  he  may  be  slow,  but  it  takes 
more  than  a  punch  with  the  end  of  a  stick  to  stop  him  ; 
and  this  Porky  had  fully  determined  to  go  aft  and  get 
acquainted  with  the  foreman. 

My  friend  couldn't  even  kick,  for  he  was  kneeling 
on  the  bottom  of  the  dug-out,  with  his  feet  behind 
him,  and  if  he  tried  to  stand  up  he  would  probably 
capsize. 

"  Say,  Hulbert,  what  am  I  going  to  do  ?  " 
I  didn't  give  him  any  advice,  for  my  sympathies  were 
largely  with  the  Porcupine.  Besides,  I  hadn't  any  ad- 
vice to  give.  Just  then  the  canoe  drifted  around  so  that 
I  could  look  into  it,  and  I  beheld  the  Porcupine  bearing 
down  on  my  helpless  friend  like  Birnam  Wood  on  its  way 
to  Dunsinane,  his  ruffle  of  quills  erect,  fire  in  his  little 
black  eyes,  and  a  thirst  for  vengeance  in  his  whole  aspect. 

[148] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

My  friend  made  one  or  two  final  and  ineffectual  jabs  at 
him,  and  then  gave  it  up. 

"  It's  no  use  !  "  he  called  ;  "  Fll  have  to  tip  over  ! " 
and  the  next  second  the  canoe  was  upside  down  and  both 
belligerents  were  in  the  water.  The  Porcupine  floated 
high — I  suppose  his  hollow  quills  helped  to  keep  him  up 
— and  he  proved  a  much  better  swimmer  than  I  had  ex- 
pected, for  he  quickly  made  his  way  to  the  beach  and 
disappeared  in  the  woods,  still  chattering  disrespectfully. 
My  friend  waded  ashore,  righted  his  canoe,  and  we  resumed 
our  journey.  I  don't  think  Fll  tell  you  what  he  said. 
He  got  over  it  after  a  while,  and  in  the  end  he  probably 
enjoyed  his  joke  more  than  if  it  had  turned  out  as  he 
had  intended. 

The  summer  followed  the  winter  into  the  past,  and  the 
Moon  of  Falling  Leaves  came  round  again.  The  Porcu- 
pine was  not  alone.  Another  porky  was  with  him,  and 
the  two  seemed  very  good  friends.  In  fact,  his  com- 
panion was  the  very  same  lady  porcupine  who  had  stood 
by  while  he  fought  the  battle  of  the  log  and  the  lily-pads, 
though  I  do  not  suppose  that  they  had  been  keeping 
company  all  those  months,  and  I  am  by  no  means  certain 
that  they  remembered  that  eventful  morning  at  all.  Let 

[149] 


Forest  Neighbors 

us  hope  they  did,  for  the  sake  of  the  story.  Who  knows 
how  much  or  how  little  of  love  was  stirring  the  slow 
currents  of  their  sluggish  natures — of  such  love  as  binds 
the  dove  or  the  eagle  to  his  mate,  or  of  such  steadfast 
affection  as  the  Beaver  and  his  wife  seem  to  have  felt  for 
each  other  ?  Not  much,  perhaps ;  yet  they  climbed  the 
same  tree,  ate  from  the  same  branch,  and  drank  at  the 
same  spring;  and  the  next  April  there  was  another 
arrival  in  the  old  hollow  log — twins,  this  time,  and  both 
of  them  alive. 

But  the  Porcupine  never  saw  his  children,  for  a 
wandering  fit  seized  him,  and  he  left  the  Glimmerglass 
before  they  were  born.  Two  or  three  miles  away  was  a 
little  clearing  where  a  mossback  lived.  A  railway  crossed 
one  edge  of  it,  between  the  hill  and  the  swamp,  and  five 
miles  away  was  a  junction,  where  locomotives  were  con- 
stantly moving  about,  backing,  hauling,  and  making  up 
their  trains.  As  the  mossback  lay  awake  in  the  long, 
quiet,  windless  winter  nights,  he  often  heard  them  puffing 
and  snorting,  now  with  slow,  heavy  coughs,  and  now 
quick  and  sharp  and  rapid.  One  night  when  he  was  half 
asleep  he  heard  something  that  said,  "  chew-chew-chew- 
chew-chew-chew,'"  like  an  engine  that  has  its  train  mov- 

[150] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

ing  and  is  just  beginning  to  get  up  speed.  At  first  he 
paid  no  attention  to  it.  But  the  noise  suddenly  stopped 
short,  and  after  a  pause  of  a  few  seconds  it  began  again 
at  exactly  the  same  speed  ;  stopped  again,  and  began  a 
third  time.  And  so  it  went  on,  chewing  and  pausing, 
chewing  and  pausing,  with  always  just  so  many  chews  to 
the  second,  and  just  so  many  seconds  to  each  rest.  No 
locomotive  ever  puffed  like  that.  The  mossback  was 
wide  awake  now,  and  he  muttered  something  about  "  an- 
other of  those  pesky  porkies."  He  had  killed  the  last 
one  that  came  around  the  house,  and  had  wanted  his 
wife  to  cook  it  for  dinner  and  see  how  it  tasted,  but  she 
wouldn't.  She  said  that  the  very  sight  of  it  was  enough 
for  her,  and  more  than  enough ;  and  that  it  was  all  she 
could  do  to  eat  pork  and  potatoes  after  looking  at  it. 

He  turned  over  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep  again,  but 
without  success.  That  steady  "  chew-chew-chew "  was 
enough  to  keep  a  woodchuck  awake,  and  at  last  he  got 
up  and  went  to  the  door.  The  moonlight  on  the  snow 
was  almost  as  bright  as  day,  and  there  was  the  Porcupine, 
leaning  against  the  side  of  the  barn,  and  busily  rasping 
the  wood  from  around  the  head  of  a  rusty  nail.  The 
mossback  threw  a  stick  of  stove-wood  at  him,  and  he 

[151J 


Forest  Neighbors 

lumbered  clumsily  away  across  the  snow.  But  twenty 
minutes  later  he  was  back  again,  and  this  time  he  marched 
straight  into  the  open  shed  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and 
began  operations  on  a  wash-tub,  whose  mingled  flavor  of 
soap  and  humanity  struck  him  as  being  very  delicious. 
Again  the  mossback  appeared  in  the  doorway,  shivering  a 
little  in  his  night-shirt. 

The  Porcupine  was  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  He  had 
stopped  chewing  when  the  door  opened,  and  now  he  lifted 
his  forepaws  and  sat  half-erect,  his  yellow  teeth  showing 
between  his  parted  lips,  and  his  little  eyes  staring  at  the 
lamp  which  the  mossback  carried.  The  quills  slanted 
back  from  all  around  his  diminutive  face,  and  even  from 
between  his  eyes — short  at  first,  but  growing  longer  tow- 
ard his  shoulders  and  back.  Long  whitish  bristles  were 
mingled  with  them,  and  the  mossback  could  not  help 
thinking  of  a  little  old,  old  man,  with  hair  that  was 
grizzly-gray,  and  a  face  that  was  half-stupid  and  half-sad 
and  wistful.  He  was  not  yet  two  years  of  age,  but  I 
believe  that  a  porcupine  is  born  old.  Some  of  the  Ind- 
ians say  that  he  is  ashamed  of  his  homely  looks,  and  that 
that  is  the  reason  why,  by  day,  he  walks  so  slowly,  with 
hanging  head  and  downcast  eyes  ;  but  at  night,  they  say, 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

when  the  friendly  darkness  hides  his  ugliness,  he  lifts  his 
head  and  runs  like  a  dog.  In  spite  of  the  hour  and  the 
cheering  influence  of  the  wash-tub,  our  Porky  seemed  even 
more  low-spirited  than  usual.  Perhaps  the  lamplight 
had  suddenly  reminded  him  of  his  personal  appearance. 
At  any  rate  he  looked  so  lonesome  and  forlorn  that  the 
mossback  felt  a  little  thrill  of  pity  for  him,  and  decided 
not  to  kill  him  after  all,  but  to  drive  him  away  again. 
He  started  down  the  steps  with  his  lamp  in  one  hand  and 
a  stick  of  wood  in  the  other,  and  then — he  never  knew 
how  it  happened,  but  in  some  way  he  stumbled  and  fell. 
Never  in  all  his  life,  not  even  when  his  wildest  nightmare 
came  and  sat  on  him  in  the  wee,  sma"  hours,  had  he  come 
so  near  screaming  out  in  terror  as  he  did  at  that  moment. 
He  thought  he  was  going  to  sit  down  on  the  Porcupine. 
Fortunately  for  both  of  them,  but  especially  for  the  man, 
he  missed  him  by  barely  half  an  inch,  and  the  Porky 
scuttled  away  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him. 

In  spite  of  this  unfriendly  reception,  the  Porcupine 
hung  around  the  edges  of  the  clearing  for  several  months, 
and  enjoyed  many  a  meal  such  as  seldom  falls  to  the  lot 
of  the  woods-people.  One  night  he  found  an  empty 
pork-barrel  out  behind  the  barn,  its  staves  fairly  saturated 

[153] 


Forest  Neighbors 

with  salt,  and  hour  after  hour  he  scraped  away  upon  it, 
perfectly  content.  Another  time,  to  his  great  satisfac- 
tion, he  discovered  a  large  piece  of  bacon  rind  among 
some  scraps  that  the  mossback's  wife  had  thrown  away. 
Later  he  invaded  the  sugar-bush  by  night,  gnawing  deep 
notches  in  the  edges  of  the  sap  buckets  and  barrels,  and 
helping  himself  to  the  sirup  in  the  big  boiling-pan. 

Life  was  not  all  feasting,  however.  There  was  a  dog 
who  attacked  him  two  or  three  times,  but  who  finally 
learned  to  keep  away  and  mind  his  own  business.  Once, 
when  he  had  ventured  a  little  too  close  to  the  house,  and 
was  making  an  unusual  racket  with  his  teeth,  the  moss- 
back  came  to  the  door  and  fired  a  shotgun  at  him,  cutting 
off  several  of  his  quills.  And  still  another  night,  late  in  the 
spring,  when  he  was  prowling  around  the  barn,  a  bull  calf 
came  and  smelled  him.  Next  morning  the  mossback  and 
his  boys  threw  that  calf  down  on  the  ground  and  tied  his 
feet  to  a  stump,  and  three  of  them  sat  on  him  while  a 
fourth  pulled  the  quills  from  his  nose  with  a  pair  of 
pincers.  You  should  have  heard  him  grunt. 

Then  came  the  greatest  adventure  of  all.  Down  beside 
the  railway  was  a  small  platform  on  which  supplies  for 
the  lumber-camps  were  sometimes  unloaded  from  the 

[154] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

trains.  Brine  and  molasses  and  various  other  delectable 
things  had  leaked  out  of  the  barrels  and  kegs  and  boxes, 
and  the  Porcupine  discovered  that  the  planks  were  very 
nicely  seasoned  and  flavored.  He  visited  them  once  too 
often,  for  one  summer  evening,  as  he  was  gnawing  away 
at  the  site  of  an  ancient  puddle  of  molasses,  the  accom- 
modation train  rolled  in  and  came  to  a  halt.  He  tried  to 
hide  behind  a  stump,  but  the  trainmen  caught  sight  of  him, 
and  before  he  knew  it  they  had  shoved  him  into  an  empty 
box  and  hoisted  him  into  the  baggage-car.  They  turned 
him  loose  among  the  passengers  on  the  station  platform 
at  Sault  Ste.  Marie,  and  his  arrival  created  a  sensation. 

When  the  first  excitement  had  subsided,  all  the  girls 
in  the  crowd  declared  that  they  must  have  some  quills  for 
souvenirs,  and  all  the  young  men  set  to  work  to  procure 
them,  hoping  to  distinguish  themselves  by  proving  their 
superiority  in  strength  and  courage  over  this  poor  little 
twenty-pound  beast  just  out  of  the  woods.  Most  of  them 
succeeded  in  getting  some  quills,  and  also  in  acquiring 
some  painful  experience — especially  the  one  who  attempted 
to  lift  the  Porcupine  by  the  tail,  and  who  learned  that 
that  interesting  member  is  the  very  hottest  and  liveliest 
portion  of  the  animal's  anatomy.  They  finally  discovered 

[155] 


Forest  Neighbors 

that  the  best  way  to  get  quills  from  a  live  porcupine  is 
to  hit  him  with  a  piece  of  board.  The  sharp  points  pene- 
trate the  wood  and  stick  there,  the  other  ends  come  loose 
from  his  skin,  and  there  you  have  them.  Our  friend  lost 
most  of  his  armor  that  day,  and  it  was  a  good  thing  for 
him  that  departed  quills,  like  clipped  hair,  will  renew 
themselves  in  the  course  of  time. 

One  of  the  brakemen  carried  him  home,  and  he  spent 
the  next  few  months  in  the  enjoyment  of  city  life. 
Whether  he  found  much  pleasure  in  it  is,  perhaps,  a 
question,  but  I  am  rather  inclined  to  think  that  he  did. 
He  had  plenty  to  eat,  and  he  learned  that  apples  are  very 
good  indeed,  and  that  the  best  way  to  partake  of  them  is 
to  sit  up  on  your  haunches  and  hold  them  between  your 
fore-paws.  He  also  learned  that  men  are  not  always  to 
be  regarded  as  enemies,  for  his  owner  and  his  owner's  chil- 
dren were  good  to  him  and  soon  won  his  confidence.  But, 
after  all,  the  city  was  not  home,  and  the  woods  were ;  so 
he  employed  some  of  his  spare  time  in  gnawing  a  hole 
through  the  wall  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  shed  where  he 
was  confined,  and  one  night  he  scrambled  out  and  hid 
himself  in  an  empty  barn.  A  day  or  two  later  he  was  in 
the  forest  again. 

[156] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

The  remaining  years  of  his  life  were  spent  on  the 
banks  of  St.  Mary's  River,  and  for  the  most  part  they 
were  years  of  quietness  and  contentment.  He  was  far 
from  his  early  home,  but  the  bark  of  a  birch  or  a  maple 
or  a  hemlock  is  much  the  same  on  St.  Mary's  as  by  the 
Glimmerglass.  He  grew  bigger  and  fatter  as  time  went 
on,  and  some  weeks  before  he  died  he  must  have  weighed 
thirty  or  forty  pounds. 

Once  in  a  while  there  was  a  little  dash  of  excitement 
to  keep  life  from  becoming  too  monotonous — if  too  much 
monotony  is  possible  in  a  porcupine's  existence.  One 
night  he  scrambled  up  the  steps  of  a  little  summer  cot- 
tage close  to  the  edge  of  the  river,  and,  finding  the  door 
unlatched,  he  pushed  it  open  and  walked  in.  It  proved 
to  be  a  cottage  full  of  girls,  and  they  stood  around  on 
chairs  and  the  tops  of  wash-stands,  bombarded  him  with 
curling-irons,  poked  feebly  with  bed-slats,  and  shrieked 
with  laughter  till  the  farmers  over  on  the  Canadian  shore 
turned  in  their  beds  and  wondered  what  could  be  hap- 
pening on  Uncle  Sam's  side  of  the  river.  The  worst  of 
it  was  that  in  his  travels  around  the  room  he  had  come 
up  behind  the  door  and  pushed  it  shut,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  even  the  red-haired  girl  could  muster  up  suf- 

[157] 


Forest  Neighbors 

ficient  courage  to  climb  down  from  her  perch  and  open  it 
again. 

At  another  time  an  Indian  robbed  him  of  the  longest 
and  best  of  his  quills — nearly  five  inches  in  length  some 
of  them — and  carried  them  off  to  be  used  in  ornamenting 
birch- bark  baskets.  And  on  still  another  occasion  he 
narrowly  escaped  death  at  the  hands  of  an  irate  canoe- 
man,  in  the  side  of  whose  Rob  Roy  he  had  gnawed  a 
great  hole. 

The  end  came  at  last,  and  it  was  the  saddest,  hardest, 
strangest  fate  that  can  ever  come  to  a  wild  creature  of 
the  woods.  He — who  had  never  known  hunger  in  all  his 
life,  who  was  almost  the  only  animal  in  the  forest  who 
had  never  looked  famine  in  the  eye,  whose  table  was 
spread  with  good  things  from  January  to  December,  and 
whose  storehouse  was  full  from  Lake  Huron  to  the  Pict- 
ured Rocks — he  of  all  others,  was  condemned  to  die  of 
starvation  in  the  midst  of  plenty.  The  Ancient  Mariner, 
with  water  all  around  him  and  not  a  drop  to  drink,  was 
no  worse  off  than  our  Porcupine ;  and  the  Mariner  finally 
escaped,  but  the  Porky  didn't. 

One  of  the  summer  tourists  who  wandered  up  into  the 
north  woods  that  year  had  carried  with  him  a  little  rifle, 

[158] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

more  of  a  toy  than  a  weapon,  a  thing  that  a  sportsman 
would  hardly  have  condescended  to  laugh  at.  And  one 
afternoon,  by  ill  luck,  he  caught  sight  of  the  Porcupine 
high  up  in  the  top  of  a  tall  tree.  It  was  his  first  chance 
at  a  genuine  wild  beast,  and  he  fired  away  all  his  car- 
tridges as  fast  as  he  could  load  them  into  his  gun.  He 
thought  that  every  shot  missed,  and  he  was  very  much 
ashamed  of  his  marksmanship.  But  he  was  mistaken. 
The  very  last  bullet  broke  one  of  the  Porcupine's  lower 
front  teeth,  and  hurt  him  terribly.  It  jarred  him  to  the 
very  end  of  his  tail,  and  his  head  felt  as  if  it  was  being 
smashed  to  bits.  For  a  minute  or  two  the  strength  all 
went  out  of  him,  and  if  he  had  not  been  lying  in  a  safe, 
comfortable  crotch  he  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground. 

The  pain  and  the  shock  passed  away  after  a  while,  but 
when  supper-time  came — and  it  was  almost  always  sup- 
per-time with  the  Porcupine — his  left  lower  incisor  was 
missing.  The  right  one  was  uninjured,  however,  and  for 
a  while  he  got  on  pretty  well,  merely  having  to  spend  a 
little  more  time  than  usual  over  his  meals.  But  that  was 
only  the  beginning  of  trouble.  The  stump  of  the  broken 
tooth  was  still  there  and  still  growing,  and  it  was  soon  as 
long  as  ever,  but  in  the  meantime  its  fellow  in  the  upper 

11591 


Forest  Neighbors 

jaw  had  grown  out  beyond  its  normal  length,  and  the 
two  did  not  meet  properly.  Instead  of  coming  together 
edge  to  edge,  as  they  should  have  done,  each  wearing  the 
other  down  and  keeping  it  from  reaching  out  too  far, 
each  one  now  pushed  the  other  aside,  and  still  they  kept 
on  growing,  growing,  growing.  Worst  of  all,  in  a  short 
time  they  had  begun  to  crowd  his  jaws  apart  so  that  he 
could  hardly  use  his  right-hand  teeth,  and  they  too  were 
soon  out  of  shape.  The  evil  days  had  come,  and  the 
sound  of  the  grinding  was  low.  Little  by  little  his 
mouth  was  forced  open  wider  and  wider,  and  the  food 
that  passed  his  lips  grew  less  and  less.  His  teeth,  that 
had  all  his  life  been  his  best  tools  and  his  most  faithful 
servants,  had  turned  against  him  in  his  old  age,  and  were 
killing  him  by  inches.  Let  us  not  linger  over  those  days. 
He  was  spared  the  very  last  and  worst  pangs — for  that, 
at  least,  we  may  be  thankful.  On  the  last  day  of  his  life 
he  sat  under  a  beech-tree,  weak  and  weary  and  faint. 
He  could  not  remember  when  he  had  eaten.  His  coat  of 
hair  and  quills  was  as  thick  and  bushy  as  ever,  and  out- 
wardly he  had  hardly  changed  at  all,  but  under  his  skin 
there  was  little  left  but  bones.  And  as  he  sat  there  and 
wished  that  he  was  dead — if  such  a  wish  can  ever  come 

[160] 


Pointers  from  a  Porcupine  Quill 

to  a  wild  animal — the  Angel  of  Mercy  came,  in  the  shape 
of  a  man  with  a  revolver  in  his  pistol  pocket — a  man 
who  liked  to  kill  things. 

"A  porky  !  "  he  said.  "  Guess  Til  shoot  him,  just  for 
fun/' 

The  Porcupine  saw  him  coming  and  knew  the  danger ; 
and  for  a  moment  the  old  love  of  life  came  back  as  strong 
as  ever,  and  he  gathered  his  feeble  strength  for  one  last 
effort,  and  started  up  the  tree.  He  was  perhaps  six  feet 
from  the  ground  when  the  first  report  came. 

"  Bang !  Bang  !  Bang  !  Bang  ! "  Four  shots,  as  fast 
as  the  self-cocking  revolver  could  pour  the  lead  into  his 
body.  The  Porky  stopped  climbing.  For  an  instant  he 
hung  motionless  on  the  side  of  the  tree,  and  then  his 
forepaws  let  go,  and  he  swayed  backward  and  fell  to  the 
ground.  And  that  was  the  end  of  the  Porcupine. 


[161] 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF  A  LOON 


THE   ADVENTURES   OF  A  LOON 

JXIS  name  was  Mahng,  and  the  story  which  I  am  about 
to  relate  is  the  story  of  his  matrimonial  career — or  at  least 
of  a  portion  of  it. 

One  snowy  autumn  night,  three  years  ago,  he  was  swim- 
ming on  the  Glimmerglass  in  company  with  his  first  wife 
— one  of  the  first,  that  is.  There  may  possibly  have 
been  others  before  her,  but  if  so  I  wasn't  acquainted 
with  them.  It  was  a  fine  evening — especially  for  loons. 
There  was  no  wind,  and  the  big,  soft  flakes  came  floating 
lazily  down  to  lose  themselves  in  the  quiet  lake.  The 
sky,  the  woods,  and  the  shores  were  all  blottod  out ; 
and  the  loons  reigned  alone,  king  and  queen  of  a  dim 
little  world  of  leaden  water  and  falling  snow.  And  right 
royally  they  swam  their  kingdom,  with  an  air  as  if  they 
thought  God  had  made  the  Glimmerglass  for  their  especial 
benefit.  Perhaps  He  had. 

It  was  very,  very  lonely,  but  they  liked  it  all  the  better 
for  that.  At  times  they  even  lost  sight  of  each  other 
for  a  little  while,  as  one  dived  in  search  of  a  herring  or 

[165] 


Forest  Neighbors 

a  young  salmon  trout.  I  wish  we  could  have  followed 
Mahng  down  under  the  water  and  watched  him  at  his 
hunting.  He  didn't  dive  as  you  do,  with  a  jump  and  a 
plunge  and  a  splash.  He  merely  drew  his  head  back  a 
little  and  then  thrust  it  forward  and  downward,  and 
went  under  as  simply  and  easily  as  you  would  step  out  of 
bed,  and  with  a  good  deal  more  dignity.  It  was  his  feet 
that  did  it,  of  course.  They  were  not  good  for  much  for 
walking,  but  they  were  the  real  thing  when  it  came  to 
swimming  or  diving.  They  were  large  and  broad  and 
strongly  webbed,  and  the  short  stout  legs  which  carried 
them  were  flattened  and  compressed  that  they  might  slip 
edgewise  through  the  water,  like  a  feathered  oar-blade. 
The  muscles  which  worked  them  were  very  powerful,  and 
they  kicked  backward  with  so  much  vigor  that  two  little 
jets  of  spray  were  often  tossed  up  in  his  wake  as  he  went 
under,  like  the  splash  from  a  steamer's  paddles.  And  he 
had  a  rudder,  too,  for  in  the  after  part  of  his  body  there 
were  two  muscles  just  like  tiller-ropes,  fastened  to  his  tail 
in  such  a  way  that  they  could  twist  it  to  either  side,  and 
steer  him  to  port  or  starboard  as  occasion  demanded. 
With  his  long  neck  stretched  far  out  in  front,  his  wings 
pressed  tightly  against  his  sides,  and  his  legs  and  feet 

[166] 


f: 


//e  went  under  as  simply  as  you  would  step  out  of  bed. 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

working  as  if  they  went  by  steam,  he  shot  through  the 
water  like  a  submarine  torpedo-boat.  "The  Herdsman 
of  the  Deep,"  the  Scottish  Highlanders  used  to  say,  when 
in  winter  a  loon  came  to  visit  their  lochs  and  fiords. 
Swift  and  strong  and  terrible,  he  ranged  the  depths  of 
the  Glimmerglass,  seeking  what  he  might  devour;  and 
perhaps  you  can  imagine  how  hastily  the  poor  little  fishes 
took  their  departure  whenever  they  saw  him  coming  their 
way.  Sometimes  they  were  not  quite  quick  enough,  and 
then  his  long  bill  closed  upon  them,  and  he  swallowed 
them  whole  without  even  waiting  to  rise  to  the  sur- 
face. 

The  chase  thus  brought  to  a  successful  conclusion,  or 
perhaps  the  supply  of  air  in  his  lungs  giving  out,  he  re- 
turned to  the  upper  world,  and  again  his  voice  rang  out 
through  the  darkness  and  the  falling  snow.  Then  his 
wife  would  answer  him  from  somewhere  away  off  across 
the  lake,  and  they  would  call  back  and  forth  to  each 
other  with  many  a  laugh  and  shout,  or,  drawing  closer 
and  closer  together,  they  would  cruise  the  Glimmerglass 
side  by  side,  with  the  big  flakes  dropping  gently  on  their 
backs  and  folded  wings,  and  the  ripples  spreading  out  on 
either  hand  like  the  swell  from  the  bow  of  a  ship. 

[167] 


Forest  Neighbors 

Once  Mahng  stayed  down  a  little  longer  than  usual, 
and  when  he  came  up  he  heard  his  wife  calling  him  in  an 
excited  tone,  as  if  something  had  happened  to  her.  He 
hurried  toward  her,  and  presently  he  saw  a  light  shin- 
ing dimly  through  the  throng  of  moving  snow-flakes, 
and  growing  brighter  and  brighter  as  he  approached 
until  it  was  fairly  dazzling.  As  he  drew  nearer  still  he 
caught  sight  of  his  wife  sitting  on  the  water  squarely  in 
front  of  that  light,  and  watching  it  with  all  her  eyes. 
She  was  not  calling  now.  She  had  forgotten  Mahng, 
she  had  forgotten  to  paddle,  she  had  forgotten  everything, 
in  her  wonder  at  this  strange,  beautiful  thing,  the  like  of 
which  had  never  before  been  seen  upon  the  Glimmerglass. 
She  herself  was  a  rarely  beautiful  sight — if  she  had  only 
known  it — with  the  dark  water  rippling  gently  against 
her  bosom,  her  big  black  head  thrust  forward,  and  the 
feathers  of  her  throat  and  breast  glistening  in  the  glare 
of  the  headlight,  white  as  the  snow  that  was  falling 
around  her. 

All  this  Mahng  saw.  What  he  did  not  see,  because 
his  eyes  were  dazzled,  was  a  boat  in  the  shadow  behind 
the  light,  and  a  rifle-barrel  pointing  straight  at  his  wife's 
breast.  There  was  a  blinding  flash,  a  sharp,  crashing  re- 

[168] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

port,  and  a  cloud  of  smoke ;  and  Mahng  dived  as  quick 
as  a  wink.  But  his  wife  would  never  dive  again.  The 
bullet  had  gone  tearing  through  her  body,  and  she  lay 
stretched  out  on  the  water,  perfectly  motionless,  and  ap- 
parently dead.  And  then,  just  as  Mahng  came  to  the 
surface  a  hundred  yards  away,  and  just  as  my  partner 
put  out  his  hand  to  pick  her  up,  she  lifted  her  head  and 
gave  a  last  wild  cry.  Mahng  heard  it  and  answered,  but 
he  was  too  far  away  to  see  what  happened.  He  dared 
not  return  till  the  light  had  disappeared,  and  by  that 
time  she  was  gone.  She  had  struggled  violently  for  a 
moment,  and  had  struck  savagely  at  the  hunter's  hand, 
and  then  she  had  as  suddenly  collapsed,  the  water  turned 
red,  and  her  eyes  closed  forever.  Did  you  know  that 
among  all  God's  creatures  the  birds  are  the  only  ones 
whose  eyes  close  naturally  in  death  ?  Even  among  men 
it  is  not  so,  for  when  our  friends  die  we  lay  our  hands 
reverently  upon  their  faces,  and  weight  their  stiff  lids 
with  gold.  But  for  the  bird,  Nature  herself  performs  the 
last  kindly  office,  and  as  the  light  fades  out  from  the 
empty  windows  of  the  soul,  the  curtain  falls  of  its  own 
accord. 

During  the  next  two  or  three  days  Mahng's  voice  was 
[169] 


Forest  Neighbors 

frequently  to  be  heard,  apparently  calling  his  wife. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  mournful,  long-drawn  cry — "  Hoo- 
WOOOO-ooo  " — that  might  have  been  heard  a  mile  away 
— a  cry  that  seemed  the  very  essence  of  loneliness,  and 
that  went  right  down  where  you  lived  and  made  you  feel 
like  a  murderer.  And  sometimes  he  broke  into  a  wild 
peal  of  laughter,  as  if  he  hoped  that  that  might  better 
serve  to  call  her  back  to  him. 

His  children  had  gone  south  some  time  before.  They 
had  seemed  anxious  to  see  the  world.  Perhaps,  too,  they 
had  dreaded  the  approach  of  colder  weather  more  than  the 
older  birds,  who  had  become  somewhat  seasoned  by  pre-^ 
vious  autumns.  Anyhow,  they  had  taken  the  long  trail 
toward  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  now  that  his  wife  was 
gone  Mahng  was  entirely  alone.  At  last  he  seemed  to 
make  up  his  mind  that  he  might  as  well  follow  them,  and 
one  afternoon,  as  he  was  swimming  aimlessly  about,  I  saw 
him  suddenly  dash  forward,  working  his  wings  with  all 
their  might,  beating  the  water  at  every  stroke,  and 
throwing  spray  like  a  side  -  wheeler.  Slowly  —  for  his 
body  was  heavy,  and  his  wings  were  rather  small  for  his 
size — slowly  he  lifted  himself  from  the  water,  all  the  time 
rushing  forward  faster  and  faster.  He  couldn't  have 

[170] 


She  herself  was  a  rarely  beautiful  sight. 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

made  it  if  he  hadn't  had  plenty  of  sea-room,  but  by 
swinging  round  and  round  in  long,  wide  circles  he  man- 
aged to  rise  little  by  little  till  at  last  he  was  clear  of  the 
tree-tops.  He  passed  right  over  my  head  as  he  stood 
away  to  the  south — his  long  neck  stretched  far  out  in 
front,  his  feet  pointing  straight  back  beyond  the  end  of 
his  short  tail,  and  his  wings  beating  the  air  with  tremen- 
dous energy.  How  they  did  whizz!  He  made  almost 
as  much  noise  as  a  train  of  cars.  He  laughed  as  he  went 
by,  and  you  would  have  said  that  he  was  in  high  spirits ; 
but  before  he  disappeared  that  lonely,  long-drawn  cry 
came  back  once  more — "  Hoo-WOOOO-ooo." 

In  the  course  of  his  winter  wanderings  through  the 
South  he  happened  to  alight  one  day  on  a  certain  wild 
pond  down  in  Mississippi,  and  there  he  found  another 
loon — a  widow  whose  former  husband  had  lost  his  life 
the  previous  summer  under  rather  peculiar  circumstances. 

Beside  a  small  lake  in  Minnesota  there  lives  an  old 
Dutchman  who  catches  fish  with  empty  bottles.  On  any 
calm,  still  day  you  may  see  a  lot  of  them  floating  upright 
in  the  water,  all  tightly  corked,  and  each  with  the  end  of 
a  fishing-line  tied  around  its  neck.  They  seem  very 
decorous  and  well-behaved,  but  let  a  fish  take  one  of 

[171] 


Forest  Neighbors 

the  hooks  and  begin  to  pull,  and  immediately  that  par- 
ticular bottle  turns  wrong  end  up,  and  acts  as  if  it  had 
taken  a  drop  too  much  of  its  own  original  contents. 
Then  the  Dutchman  paddles  out  in  his  little  scow,  and 
perhaps  by  the  time  he  has  hauled  in  his  fish  and  re- 
baited  the  hook  another  bottle  is  excitedly  standing  on 
its  head.  But  never  before  nor  since  have  any  of  them 
behaved  as  wildly  as  the  one  that  a  loon  got  hold  of. 

The  loon — not  Mahng,  you  understand,  but  the  first 
husband  of  his  new  acquaintance — had  dived  in  search  of 
his  dinner,  and  the  first  thing  he  saw  that  looked  as  if  it 
might  be  good  to  eat  was  the  bait  on  one  of  the  Dutch- 
man's hooks.  He  swallowed  it,  of  course,  and  for  the 
next  five  minutes  he  went  charging  up  and  down  that 
pond  at  a  great  rate,  followed  by  a  green  glass  monster 
with  the  name  of  a  millionnaire  brewer  blown  in  its  side. 
Sometimes  he  was  on  the  surface,  and  sometimes  he  was 
under  it ;  but  wherever  he  went  that  horrible  thing  was 
close  behind  him,  pulling  so  hard  that  the  sharp  cord  cut 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  till  it  bled.  Once  or  twice  he 
tried  to  fly,  but  the  line  caught  his  wing  and  brought 
him  down  again.  When  he  dived,  it  tangled  itself  around 
his  legs  and  clogged  the  machinery ;  and  when  he  tried  to 

[172] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

shout,  the  hook  in  his  throat  would  not  let  him  do  any- 
thing more  than  cough.  The  Dutchman  got  him  at  last, 
and  eventually  Mahng  got  his  widow,  as  you  shall  see. 

She  had  her  children  to  take  care  of,  and  for  a  time 
she  was  very  busy,  but  after  a  few  weeks  they  flew  away 
to  the  south,  as  Mahng's  had  done,  and  she  was  free  to 
go  where  she  liked  and  do  what  she  pleased.  For  a  while 
she  stayed  where  she  was,  like  a  sensible  person.  Min- 
nesota suited  her  very  well,  and  she  was  in  no  hurry  to 
leave.  But,  of  course,  she  could  not  stay  on  indefinitely, 
for  some  frosty  night  the  lake  would  freeze  over,  and  then 
she  could  neither  dive  for  fish  nor  rise  upon  the  wing.  A 
loon  on  ice  is  about  as  helpless  as  an  oyster.  And  so  at 
last  she,  too,  went  south.  She  travelled  by  easy  stages, 
and  had  a  pleasant  journey,  with  many  a  stop,  and  many 
a  feast  in  the  lakes  and  rivers  along  the  route.  I  should 
like  to  know,  just  out  of  curiosity,  how  many  fish  found 
their  way  down  her  capacious  gullet  during  that  pilgrim- 
age through  Illinois  and  Kentucky  and  Tennessee. 

Well,  no  matter  about  that.  The  Mississippi  pond 
was  in  sight,  and  she  was  just  slanting  down  toward  the 
water,  when  a  hunter  fired  at  her  from  behind  a  clump  of 
trees.  His  aim  was  all  too  true,  and  she  fell  headlong  to 

[178] 


Forest  Neighbors 

the  ground,  with  a  broken  wing  dangling   helplessly  at 
her  side. 

Now,  as  you  probably  know,  a  loon  isn't  built  for  run- 
ning. There  is  an  old  story,  one  which  certainly  has  the 
appearance  of  truth,  to  the  effect  that  when  Nature  manu- 
factured the  first  of  these  birds  she  forgot  to  give  him 
any  legs  at  all,  and  that  he  had  started  off  on  the  wing 
before  she  noticed  her  mistake.  Then  she  picked  up  the 
first  pair  that  came  to  hand  and  threw  them  after  him. 
Unfortunately  they  were  a  misfit,  and,  what  was,  perhaps, 
still  worse,  they  struck  his  body  in  the  wrong  place. 
They  were  so  very  short  and  so  very  far  aft  that,  although 
he  could  stand  nearly  as  straight  as  a  man,  it  was  almost 
impossible  for  him  to  move  about  on  them.  When  he 
had  to  travel  on  land,  which  he  always  avoided  as  far  as 
he  could,  he  generally  shoved  himself  along  on  his  breast, 
and  often  used  his  wings  and  his  bill  to  help  himself  for- 
ward. All  his  descendants  are  just  like  him,  so  you  can 
see  that  the  widow's  chances  were  pretty  small,  with  the 
hunter  bursting  out  of  the  bushes,  and  a  broad  strip  of 
beach  between  her  and  the  friendly  pond. 

But  she  was  a  person  of  resource  and  energy,  and  in 
this  great  emergency  she  literally  rose  to  the  occasion, 

[174] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

and  did  something  that  she  had  never  done  before  in  all 
her  life,  and  probably  will  never  do  again.  The  aston- 
ished hunter  saw  her  lift  herself  until  she  stood  nearly 
upright,  and  then  actually  run  across  the  beach  toward 
the  water.  She  was  leaning  forward  a  trifle,  her  long 
neck  was  stretched  out,  her  two  short  legs  were  trotting 
as  fast  as  they  could  go,  and  her  one  good  wing  was  wildly 
waving  in  a  frantic  endeavor  to  get  on.  It  was  a  sight 
that  very  few  people  have  ever  seen,  and  it  would  have 
been  comical  if  it  hadn't  been  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
The  hunter  was  hard  after  her,  and  his  legs  were  a  yard 
long,  while  hers  were  only  a  few  inches,  so  it  was  not  sur- 
prising that  he  caught  her  just  as  she  reached  the  margin. 
She  wriggled  out  of  his  grasp  and  dashed  on  through  the 
shallow  water,  and  he  followed  close  behind.  In  a  mo- 
ment he  stooped  and  made  another  grab  at  her,  and  this 
time  he  got  his  arms  around  her  body  and  pinned  her 
wings  down  against  her  sides.  But  he  had  waded  out  a 
little  too  far,  and  had  reached  the  place  where  the  bot- 
tom suddenly  shelves  off  from  fifteen  inches  to  seventy- 
two.  His  foot  slipped,  and  in  another  moment  he 
was  splashing  wildly  about  in  the  water,  and  the  loon 
was  free. 

[175] 


Forest  Neighbors 

A  broken  wing  is  not  necessarily  as  serious  a  matter  as 
you  might  suppose.  The  cold  water  kept  the  inflamma- 
tion down,  and  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  vital  forces  of  her 
strong,  healthy  body  set  to  work  at  once  to  repair  the 
damage.  If  any  comparative  anatomist  ever  gets  hold  of 
the  widow  and  dissects  her,  he  will  find  a  curious  swelling 
in  the  principal  bone  of  her  left  wing,  like  a  plumber's 
join  in  a  lead  pipe,  and  he  will  know  what  it  means.  It 
is  the  place  where  Nature  soldered  the  broken  pieces  to- 
gether. And  it  was  while  Nature  was  engaged  in  this 
soldering  operation  that  Mahng  arrived  and  began  to 
cultivate  the  widow's  acquaintance. 

•'  In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson 

comes  upon  the  robin's  breast," 

and  in  the  spring  the  loon  puts  on  his  wedding-garment, 
and  his  fancy,  like  the  young  man's,  "lightly  turns  to 
thoughts  of  love." 

But  speaking  of  Mahng's  wedding-garment  reminds  me 
that  I  haven't  told  you  about  his  winter  dress.  His  back 
and  wings  were  very  dark-brown,  and  his  breast  and  under- 
parts  were  white.  His  head  and  the  upper  portion  of  his 
neck  were  black ;  his  bill  was  black,  or  blackish,  and  so 

[176] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

were  his  feet.  His  coat  was  very  thick  and  warm,  and 
his  legs  were  feathered  right  down  to  the  heel-joint. 
More  than  five  feet  his  wings  stretched  from  tip  to  tip, 
and  he  weighed  at  least  twelve  pounds,  and  would  be 
still  larger  before  he  died. 

As  to  his  nuptial  finery,  its  groundwork  was  much 
the  same,  but  its  trimmings  were  different  and  were  very 
elegant.  White  spots  appeared  all  over  his  back  and  the 
upper  surfaces  of  his  wings,  some  of  them  round,  and 
some  square.  They  were  not  thrown  on  carelessly,  but 
were  arranged  in  gracefully  curving  lines,  and  they  quite 
changed  his  appearance,  especially  if  one  were  as  near 
him  as  one  is  supposed  to  be  during  a  courting.  His 
spring  neckwear,  too,  was  in  exceedingly  good  taste,  for 
he  put  on  a  sort  of  collar  of  very  narrow  vertical  stripes, 
contrasting  beautifully  with  the  black  around  and  be- 
tween them.  Higher  up  on  his  neck  and  head  the  deep 
black  feathers  gleamed  and  shone  in  the  sunlight  with 
brilliant  irridescent  tints  of  green  and  violet.  He  was  a 
very  handsome  bird. 

And  now  everything  was  going  north.  The  sun  was 
going  north,  the  wind  was  going  north,  the  birds  were 
going,  and  summer  herself  was  sweeping  up  from  the 

[177] 


Forest  Neigtivors 

tropics  as  fast  as  ever  she  could  travel.  Mahng  was  get- 
ting very  restless.  A  dozen  times  a  day  he  would  spread 
his  wings  and  beat  the  air  furiously,  dashing  the  spray  in 
every  direction,  and  almost  lifting  his  heavy  body  out  of 
the  water.  But  the  time  was  not  yet  come,  and  presently 
he  would  fold  his  pinions  and  go  back  to  his  courting. 

Do  you  think  he  was  very  inconstant  ?  Do  you  blame 
him  for  not  being  more  faithful  to  the  memory  of  the 
bird  who  was  shot  at  his  side  only  a  few  months  before  ? 
Don't  be  too  hard  on  him.  What  can  a  loon  do  when 
the  springtime  calls  and  the  wind  blows  fresh  and  strong, 
when  the  new  strong  wine  of  life  is  coursing  madly 
through  his  veins,  and  when  his  dreams  are  all  of  the 
vernal  flight  to  the  lonely  northland,  where  the  water  is 
cold  and  the  fish  are  good,  and  where  there  are  such  de- 
lightful nesting-places  around  the  marshy  ponds  ? 

But  how  did  his  new  friend  feel  about  it  ?  Would  she 
go  with  him  ?  Ah  !  Wouldn't  she  ?  Had  not  she,  too, 
put  on  a  wedding-garment  just  like  his  ?  And  what  was 
she  there  for,  anyhow,  if  not  to  be  wooed,  and  to  find  a 
mate,  and  to  fly  away  with  him  a  thousand  miles  to  the 
north,  and  there,  beside  some  lonely  little  lake,  brood 
over  her  eggs  and  her  young  ?  Her  wing  was  gaining 

[178] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

strength  all  the  time,  and  at  last  she  was  ready.  You 
should  have  heard  them  laugh  when  the  great  day  came 
and  they  pulled  out  for  Michigan — Mahng  a  little  in  the 
lead,  as  became  the  larger  and  stronger,  and  his  new  wife 
close  behind.  There  had  been  nearly  a  week  of  cooler 
weather  just  before  the  start,  which  had  delayed  them 
a  little,  but  now  the  south  wind  was  blowing  again,  and 
over  and  over  it  seemed  to  say, 

**  And  we  go,  go,  go  away  from  here  I 

On  the,  other  side  the  world  we're  overdue  ! 
'Send  the  road  lies  clear  before  you 
When  the  old  Spring-fret  comes  o'er  you, 
And  the  Red  Gods  call  for  you." 

And  the  road  was  clear,  and  they  went.  Up,  and  up, 
and  up  ;  higher  and  higher,  till  straight  ahead,  stretching 
away  to  the  very  edge  of  the  world,  lay  league  after 
league  of  sunshine  and  air,  only  waiting  the  stroke  of 
their  wings.  Now  steady,  steady !  Beat,  beat,  beat ! 
And  the  old  earth  sliding  southward  fifty  miles  an  hour ! 
No  soaring — their  wings  were  too  short  for  that  sort  of 
work — and  no  quick  wheeling  to  right  or  left,  but  hur- 
tling on  with  whizzing  pinions  and  eager  eyes,  straight 
toward  the  goal.  Was  it  any  wonder  that  they  were 

[179] 


Forest  Neighbors 

happy,  and  that  joyful  shouts  and  wild  peals  of  laughter 
came  ringing  down  from  the  sky  to  tell  us  poor  earth- 
bound  men  and  women  that  somewhere  up  in  the  blue, 
beyond  the  reach  of  our  short-sighted  eyes,  the  loons 
were  hurrying  home  ? 

Over  the  fresh  fields,  green  with  the  young  wheat ; 
over  the  winding  rivers  and  the  smiling  lakes ;  over  the 
— shut  your  eyes,  and  dream  a  little  while,  and  see  if  you 
can  imagine  what  it  was  like.  Does  it  make  you  wish 
you  were  a  loon  yourself  ?  Never  mind ;  some  day,  per- 
haps, we  too  shall  take  our  wedding-journeys  in  the  air ; 
not  on  feathered  pinions,  but  with  throbbing  engines  and 
whizzing  wheels,  and  with  all  the  power  of  steam  or 
electricity  to  lift  us  and  bear  us  onward.  We  shall  skim 
the  prairies  and  leap  the  mountains,  and  roam  over  the 
ocean  like  the  wandering  albatross.  To-day  we  shall 
breathe  the  warm,  spicy  breath  of  the  tropic  islands,  and 
to-morrow  we  shall  sight  the  white  gleam  of  the  polar 
ice-pack.  When  the  storm  gathers  we  shall  mount  above 
it,  and  looking  down  we  shall  see  the  lightning  leap  from 
cloud  to  cloud,  and  the  rattling  thunder  will  come  up- 
ward, not  downward,  to  our  ears.  When  the  world  below 
is  steeped  in  the  shadows  of  coming  night,  we  shall  still 

[180] 


4. 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

watch  the  sunset  trailing  its  glories  over  the  western 
woods  and  mountains ;  and  when  morning  breaks  we 
shall  be  the  first  to  welcome  the  sunrise  as  it  comes  rush- 
ing up  from  the  east  a  thousand  miles  an  hour.  The 
wind  of  the  upper  heavens  will  be  pure  and  keen  and 
strong,  and  not  even  a  sleigh-ride  on  a  winter's  night  can 
set  the  live  blood  dancing  as  it  will  dance  and  tingle  up 
there  above  the  clouds.  And  riding  on  the  air,  alone 
with  the  roaring  engines  that  have  become  for  the  time 
a  part  of  ourselves,  we  shall  know  at  last  what  our  earth 
is  really  like,  for  we  shall  see  it  as  the  loons  see  it — yes, 
as  God  and  His  angels  see  it — this  old  earth,  on  which 
we  have  lived  for  so  many  thousand  years,  and  yet  have 
never  seen. 

But,  after  all,  the  upper  heavens  will  not  be  home ; 
and  some  day,  as  we  shoot  northward,  or  southward,  or 
eastward,  or  westward,  we  shall  see  beneath  us  the  spot 
that  is  to  be  for  us  the  best  and  dearest  place  in  all  the 
world,  and  dropping  down  out  of  the  blue  we  shall  find 
something  that  is  even  better  than  riding  on  the  wings  of 
the  wind.  That  was  what  happened  to  Mahng  and  his 
wife,  for  one  spring  evening,  as  they  came  rushing  over 
the  pine-tops  and  the  maples  and  birches,  they  saw  the 

[181] 


Forest  Neighbors 

Glimmerglass  just  ahead.  The  water  lay  like  polished 
steel  in  the  fading  light,  and  the  brown  ranks  of  the  still 
leafless  trees  stood  dark  and  silent  around  the  shores.  It 
was  very  quiet,  and  very,  very  lonely  ;  and  the  lake  and 
the  woods  seemed  waiting  and  watching  for  something. 
And  into  that  stillness  and  silence  the  loons  came  with 
shouting  and  laughter,  sweeping  down  on  a  long  slant, 
and  hitting  the  water  with  a  splash.  The  echoes  awoke 
and  the  Glimmerglass  was  alive,  and  summer  had  come 
to  the  northland. 

They  chose  a  place  where  the  shore  was  low  and 
marshy,  and  there,  only  two  or  three  yards  from  the 
water's  edge,  they  built  a  rude  nest  of  grass  and  weeds 
and  lily-pads.  Two  large  greenish  eggs,  blotched  with 
dark-brown,  lay  in  its  hollow;  and  the  wife  sat  upon 
them  week  after  week,  and  covered  them  with  the  warm 
feathers  of  her  broad,  white  breast.  Once  in  a  while  she 
left  them  long  enough  to  stretch  her  wings  in  a  short 
flight,  or  to  dive  in  search  of  a  fish,  but  she  was  never 
gone  very  long.  It  was  a  weary  vigil  that  she  kept,  but 
she  sat  there  in  daylight  and  darkness,  through  sunshine 
and  storm,  till  at  last  the  day  came  when  there  were  four 
loons  instead  of  two  at  the  Glimmerglass. 

[182] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

The  chicks  were  very  smart  and  active,  and  they  took 
to  the  water  almost  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  the  shell, 
swimming  and  diving  as  if  they  had  been  accustomed  to 
it  for  weeks  instead  of  hours.  In  some  ways,  however, 
they  required  a  good  deal  of  care.  For  one  thing,  their 
little  stomachs  were  not  quite  equal  to  the  task  of  assim- 
ilating raw  fish,  and  the  parents  had  to  swallow  all  their 
food  for  them,  keep  it  down  till  it  was  partly  digested, 
and  then  pass  it  up  again  to  the  hungry  children.  It 
made  a  good  deal  of  delay,  and  it  must  have  been  very 
unpleasant,  but  it  seemed  to  be  the  only  practicable  way 
of  dealing  with  the  situation.  I  am  glad  to  say  that  it 
did  not  last  very  long,  for  by  the  time  they  were  two 
weeks  old  the  young  loons  were  able  to  take  their  fish 
and  reptiles  and  insects  at  first  hand. 

When  they  first  arrived  the  chicks  were  covered  all 
over  with  stiff  down,  of  a  dark,  sooty  gray  on  their 
backs,  and  white  underneath.  But  this  did  not  last  long, 
either.  The  first  feathers  soon  appeared,  and  multiplied 
rapidly.  I  can't  say  that  the  young  birds  were  particular- 
ly handsome,  for  even  when  their  plumage  was  complete 
it  was  much  quieter  and  duller  of  hue  than  their  parents'. 
But  they  were  fat  and  plump,  and  I  think  they  thor- 

[183] 


Forest  Neighbors 

oughly  enjoyed  life,  especially  before  they  discovered  that 
there  were  enemies  as  well  as  friends  in  the  world.  That 
was  a  kind  of  knowledge  that  could  not  be  avoided  very 
long,  however.  They  soon  learned  that  men,  and  certain 
other  animals  such  as  hawks  and  skunks,  were  to  be  care- 
fully shunned  ;  and  you  should  have  seen  them  run  on 
the  water  whenever  a  suspicious-looking  character  hove  in 
sight.  Their  wings  were  not  yet  large  enough  for  flying, 
but  they  flapped  them  with  all  their  might,  and  scampered 
across  the  Glimmerglass  so  fast  that  their  little  legs  fairly 
twinkled,  and  they  actually  left  a  furrow  in  the  water 
behind  them.  But  the  bottom  of  the  lake  was  really  the 
safest  refuge,  and  if  a  boat  or  a  canoe  pressed  them  too 
closely  they  would  usually  dive  below  the  surface,  while 
the  older  birds  tried  to  lure  the  enemy  off  in  some  other 
direction  by  calling  and  shouting  and  making  all  sorts  of 
demonstrations. 

Generally  these  tactics  were  successful,  but  not  always. 
Once  some  boys  cornered  the  whole  family  in  a  small, 
shallow  bay,  where  the  water  was  not  deep  enough  for 
diving ;  and  before  they  could  escape  one  of  the  young- 
sters was  driven  up  onto  the  beach.  He  tried  to  hide 
behind  a  log,  but  he  was  captured  and  carried  off,  and  I 

[184] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

wish  I  had  time  to  tell  you  of  all  the  things  that  hap- 
pened to  him  before  he  was  finally  killed  and  eaten  by  a 
dog.  It  was  pretty  tough  on  the  old  birds,  as  well  as  on 
him,  but  they  still  had  one  chick  left,  and  you  can't  ex- 
pect to  raise  all  your  children  as  long  as  bigger  people 
are  so  fond  of  kidnapping  and  killing  them. 

Not  all  the  people  who  came  to  see  them  were  bent  on 
mischief,  however.  There  was  a  party  of  girls  and  boys, 
for  instance,  who  camped  beside  the  Glimmerglass  for  a 
few  weeks,  and  who  liked  to  follow  them  around  the  lake 
in  a  row-boat  and  imitate  their  voices,  just  for  the  fun  of 
making  them  talk  back.  One  girl  in  particular  became 
so  accomplished  in  the  loon  language  that  Mahng  would 
often  get  very  much  excited  as  he  conversed  with  her,  and 
would  sometimes  let  the  boat  creep  nearer  and  nearer 
until  they  were  only  a  few  rods  apart.  And  then,  all  of 
a  sudden,  he  would  duck  his  head  and  go  under,  perhaps 
in  the  very  middle  of  a  laugh.  The  siren  was  getting 
a  little  too  close.  Her  intentions  might  possibly  be  all 
right,  but  it  was  just  as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side. 

The  summer  was  nearly  gone,  and  now  Mahng  did 
something  which  I  fear  you  will  strongly  disapprove.  I 
didn't  want  to  tell  you  about  it,  but  I  suppose  I  must. 

[185] 


Forest  Neighbors 

Two  or  three  male  loons  passed  over  the  Glimmerglass 
one  afternoon,  calling  and  shouting  as  they  went,  and  he 
flew  up  and  joined  them,  and  came  back  no  more  that 
summer.  It  looked  like  a  clear  case  of  desertion,  but  we 
must  remember  that  he  had  stood  by  his  wife  all  through 
the  trying  period  of  the  spring  and  early  summer,  and 
that  the  time  was  at  hand  when  the  one  chick  that  was 
left  would  go  out  into  the  world  to  paddle  his  own  canoe, 
and  when  she  would  no  longer  need  his  help  in  caring  for 
a  family  of  young  children.  But  you  think  he  might 
have  stayed  with  her,  anyhow  ?  Well,  so  do  I ;  I'm  sorry 
he  didn't.  They  say  that  his  cousins,  the  Red-throated 
Loons,  marry  for  life,  and  live  together  from  the  wedding- 
day  till  death,  and  I  don't  see  why  he  couldn't  have  done 
as  well  as  they.  But  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  the  custom 
among  the  Great  Northern  Divers.  Mahng  was  only 
following  the  usual  practice  of  his  kind,  and  if  his  first 
wife  had  not  been  shot  it  is  likely  that  they  would  have 
separated  before  they  had  gone  very  far  south.  And  yet 
it  does  not  follow  that  the  marriage  was  not  a  love- 
match.  If  you  had  seen  them  at  their  housekeeping  I 
think  you  would  have  pronounced  him  a  very  good  hus- 
band and  father.  Perhaps  the  conjugal  happiness  of  the 

[186] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

spring  and  early  summer  was  all  the  better  for  a  taste  of 
solitude  during  the  rest  of  the  year. 

As  I  said,  the  time  was  near  when  the  chick  would 
strike  out  for  himself.  He  soon  left  his  mother,  and  a 
little  later  she  too  started  for  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 
Summer  was  over,  and  the  Glimmerglass  was  lonelier 
than  ever. 

Mahng  came  back  next  spring,  and  of  course  he 
brought  a  wife  with  him.  But  was  she  the  same  wife 
who  had  helped  him  make  the  Glimmerglass  ring  with  his 
shouting  twelve  months  before  ?  Well,  I — I  don't  quite 
know.  She  looked  very  much  like  her,  and  I  certainly 
hope  she  was  the  same  bird.  I  should  like  to  believe 
that  they  had  been  reunited  somewhere  down  in  Texas 
or  Mississippi  or  Louisiana,  and  that  they  had  come  back 
together  for  another  season  of  parental  cares  and  joys. 
But  when  I  consider  the  difficulties  in  the  way  I  cannot 
help  feeling  doubtful  about  it.  The  two  birds  had  gone 
south  at  different  times  and  perhaps  by  different  routes. 
Before  they  reached  the  lower  Mississippi  Valley  they  •"' 
may  have  been  hundreds  of  miles  apart.  Was  it  to  be 
reasonably  expected  that  Mahng,  when  he  was  ready  to 
return,  would  search  every  pond  and  stream  from  the 

[187] 


Forest  Neighbors 

Cumberland  to  the  Gulf?  And  is  it  likely  that,  even 
if  he  had  tried  for  weeks  and  weeks,  he  could  ever  have 
found  his  wife  of  the  previous  summer  ?  His  flight  was 
swift  and  his  sight  keen,  and  his  clarion  voice  rang  far 
and  wide  over  the  marshes  ;  but  it  is  no  joke  to  find 
one  particular  bird  in  a  region  covering  half  a  dozen 
States.  If  they  had  arranged  to  come  north  separately, 
and  meet  at  the  Glimmerglass,  there  would  not  have  been 
so  many  difficulties  in  the  way,  but  they  didn't  do  that. 
Anyhow,  Mahng  brought  a  wife  home.  That  much,  at 
least,  is  established.  They  set  to  work  at  once  to  build 
a  nest  and  make  ready  for  some  new  babies ;  but,  alas ! 
there  was  little  parental  happiness  or  responsibility  in 
store  for  them  that  year. 

If  you  had  been  there  you  might  have  seen  them  swim- 
ming out  from  shore  one  bright,  beautiful  spring  morning, 
when  the  sun  had  just  risen,  and  the  woods  and  waters 
lay  calm  and  peaceful  in  the  golden  light,  fairer  than 
words  can  tell.  They  were  after  their  breakfast,  and 
presently  they  dived  to  see  what  was  to  be  had.  The 
light  is  dim  down  there  in  the  depths  of  the  Glimmer- 
glass,  the  weeds  are  long  and  slimy,  and  the  mud  of  the 
bottom  is  black  and  loathsome.  But  what  does  that 

[188] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

matter  ?  One  can  go  back  whenever  one  pleases.  A  few 
quick,  powerful  strokes  will  take  you  up  into  the  open 
air,  and  you  can  see  the  woods  and  the  sky.  Aha ! 
There  is  a  herring,  his  scales  shining  like  silver  in  the 
faint  green  light  that  comes  down  through  the  water. 
And  there  is  a  small  salmon  trout,  with  his  gray-brown 
back  and  his  golden  sides.  A  fish  for  each  of  us. 

The  loons  darted  forward  at  full  speed ;  but  the  two 
fish  made  no  effort  to  escape,  and  did  not  even  wriggle 
when  the  long,  sharp  bills  closed  upon  them.  They  were 
dead,  choked  to  death  by  the  fine  threads  of  a  gill-net. 
And  now  those  same  threads  laid  hold  of  the  loons  them- 
selves, and  a  fearful  struggle  began. 

Mahng  and  his  wife  did  not  always  keep  their  wings 
folded  when  they  were  under  water.  Sometimes  they 
used  them  almost  as  they  did  in  flying,  and  just  now  they 
had  need  of  every  muscle  in  their  bodies.  How  their 
pinions  lashed  the  water,  and  how  their  legs  kicked  and 
their  long  necks  writhed,  and  how  the  soft  mud  rose  in 
clouds  and  shut  out  the  dim  light !  But  the  harder  they 
fought  the  more  tightly  did  the  net  grapple  them,  wind- 
ing itself  round  and  round  their  bodies,  and  soon  lashing 
their  wings  down  against  their  sides.  Expert  divers 

[189] 


Forest  Neighbors 

though  they  were,  the  loons  were  drowning.  There  was 
a  ringing  in  their  ears  and  a  roaring  in  their  heads,  and 
the  very  last  atoms  of  oxygen  in  their  lungs  were  almost 
gone.  Death  was  drawing  very  near,  and  the  bright, 
sunshiny  world  where  they  had  been  so  happy  a  moment 
before,  the  world  to  which  they  had  thought  they  could 
return  so  quickly  and  easily,  seemed  a  thousand  miles 
away.  One  last  effort,  one  final  struggle,  and  if  that 
failed  there  would  be  nothing  more  to  do  but  go  to  sleep 
forever. 

Fortunately  for  Mahng,  his  part  of  the  net  had  been 
mildewed,  and  much  of  the  strength  had  gone  out  of  the 
linen  threads.  He  was  writhing  and  twisting  with  all  his 
might,  and  suddenly  he  felt  something  give.  One  of  the 
rotten  meshes  had  torn  apart.  He  worked  with  redoubled 
energy,  and  in  a  moment  another  thread  gave  way,  and 
then  another,  and  another.  A  second  more  and  he  was 
free.  Quick,  now,  before  the  last  spark  goes  out !  With 
beating  wings  and  churning  paddles  he  fairly  flew  up 
through  the  green  water  toward  the  light,  and  on  a  sudden 
he  shot  out  into  the  air,  panting  and  gasping,  and  star- 
ing wildly  around  at  the  blue  sky,  and  the  quiet  woods, 
and  the  smiling  Glimmerglass.  And  how  royally  beau- 

[190J 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

tiful  was  the  sunshine,  and  how  sweet  was  the  breath 
of  life! 

But  his  mate  was  not  with  him,  and  a  few  hours  later 
the  fisherman  found  in  his  net  the  lifeless  body  of  a 
drowned  loon. 

Mahng  went  north.  He  had  thought  that  his  spring 
flight  was  over  and  that  he  would  go  no  farther,  but  now 
the  Glimmerglass  was  no  longer  home,  and  he  spread  his 
wings  once  more  and  took  his  way  toward  the  Arctic 
Circle.  Over  the  hills,  crowded  with  maple  and  beech 
and  birch  ;  over  the  Great  Tahquamenon  Swamp,  with 
its  cranberry  marshes,  its  tangles  of  spruce  and  cedar,  and 
its  thin,  scattered  ranks  of  tamarack  ;  over  the  sandy 
ridges  where  the  pine-trees  stand  tall  and  stately,  and  out 
on  Lake  Superior.  The  water  was  blue,  and  the  sunshine 
was  bright ;  the  wind  was  fresh  and  cool,  and  the  billows 
rolled  and  tumbled  as  if  they  were  alive  and  were  hav- 
ing a  good  time  together.  Together — that's  the  word. 
They  were  together,  but  Mahng  was  alone ;  and  he  wasn't 
having  a  good  time  at  all.  He  wanted  a  home,  and  a 
nest,  and  some  young  ones,  but  he  didn't  find  them  that 
year,  though  he  went  clear  to  Hudson  Bay,  and  looked 
everywhere  for  a  mate.  There  were  loons,  plenty  of 

[191] 


Forest  Neighbors 

them,  but  they  had  already  paired  and  set  up  housekeep- 
ing, and  he  found  no  one  who  was  in  a  position  to  halve 
his  sorrows  and  double  his  joys. 

Something  attracted  his  attention  one  afternoon  when 
he  was  swimming  on  a  little  lake  far  up  in  the  Canadian 
wilderness — a  small  red  object  that  kept  appearing  and 
disappearing  in  a  very  mysterious  fashion  among  the 
bushes  that  lined  the  beach.  Mahng's  bump  of  curiosity 
was  large  and  well  developed,  and  he  gave  one  of  his  best 
laughs  and  paddled  slowly  in -to ward  the  shore.  I  think 
he  had  a  faint  and  utterly  unreasonable  hope  that  it  might 
prove  to  be  what  he  was  looking  and  longing  for,  though 
he  knew  very  well  that  no  female  loon  of  his  species  ever 
had  red  feathers — nor  a  male,  either,  for  that  matter.  It 
was  a  most  absurd  idea,  and  his  dreams,  if  he  really  had 
them,  were  cut  short  by  the  report  of  a  shotgun.  A  little 
cloud  of  smoke  floated  up  through  the  bushes,  and  a 
charge  of  heavy  shot  peppered  the  water  all  around  him. 
But  if  Mahng  was  curious  he  was  also  quick  to  take  a 
hint.  He  had  heard  the  click  of  the  gun-lock,  and  before 
the  leaden  hail  could  reach  him  he  was  under  water. 
His  tail  feathers  suffered  a  little,  but  otherwise  he  was 
uninjured,  and  he  did  not  come  to  the  surface  again 

[1921 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

till  he  was  far  away  from  that  deceitful  red  handker- 
chief. 

The  summer  was  an  entire  failure,  and  after  a  while 
Mahng  gave  it  up  in  despair,  and  started  south  much 
earlier  than  usual.  At  the  Straits  of  Mackinac  he  had 
another  narrow  escape,  for  he  came  very  near  killing  him- 
self by  dashing  head  first  against  the  lantern  of  a  light- 
house, whose  brilliant  beams,  a  thousand  times  brighter 
than  the  light  which  had  lured  his  first  wife  to  her  death, 
had  first  attracted  and  then  dazzled  and  dazed  him. 
Fortunately  he  swerved  a  trifle  at  the  last  moment,  and 
though  he  brushed  against  an  iron  railing,  lost  his  bal- 
ance, and  fell  into  the  water,  there  were  no  bones  broken 
and  no  serious  damage  done. 

The  southland,  as  everybody  knows,  is  the  only  proper 
place  for  «a  loon  courtship.  There,  I  am  pleased  to  say, 
Mahng  found  a  new  wife,  and  in  due  time  he  brought  her 
up  to  the  Glimmerglass.  That  was  only  last  spring, 
and  there  is  but  one  more  incident  for  me  to  relate. 
This  summer  has  been  a  happy  and  prosperous  one,  but 
there  was  a  time  when  it  seemed  likely  to  end  in  disaster 
before  it  had  fairly  begun. 

Just  northeast  of  the  Glimmerglass  there  lies  a  long, 
[193] 


Forest  Neighbors 

narrow,  shallow  pond.  I  believe  I  mentioned  it  when  I 
was  telling  you  about  the  Beaver.  One  afternoon  Mahng 
had  flown  across  to  this  pond,  and  as  he  was  swimming 
along  close  to  the  shore  he  put  his  foot  into  a  beaver- 
trap,  and  sprung  it.  Of  course  he  did  his  best  to  get 
away,  but  the  only  result  of  his  struggling  was  to  work 
the  trap  out  into  deeper  and  deeper  water  until  he  was 
almost  submerged.  He  made  things  almost  boil  with  the 
fierce  beating  of  his  wings,  but  it  was  no  use ;  he  might 
better  have  saved  his  strength.  He  quieted  down  at  last 
and  lay  very  still,  with  only  his  head  and  neck  out  of 
water,  and  there  he  waited  two  mortal  hours  for  some- 
thing to  happen. 

Meanwhile  his  wife  sat  quietly  on  her  eggs — there  were 
three  of  them  this  year — and  drowsed  away  the  warm 
spring  afternoon.  By  and  by  she  heard  a  tramping  as  of 
heavy  feet  approaching,  and  glancing  between  the  tall 
grasses  she  saw,  not  a  bear  nor  a  deer,  but  something  far 
worse — a  man.  She  waited  till  he  was  within  a  few 
yards,  and  then  she  jumped  up,  scuttled  down  to  the 
water  as  fast  as  she  could  go,  and  dived  as  if  she  was 
made  of  lead.  The  trapper  glanced  after  her  with  a 
chuckle. 

[194] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

"  Seems  pretty  badly  scared,"  he  said  to  himself,  but 
his  voice  was  not  unkindly.  His  smile  faded  as  he  stood 
a  moment  beside  the  nest,  looking  at  the  eggs,  and  think- 
ing of  what  would  some  day  come  forth  from  them.  He 
was  a  solitary  old  fellow,  with  never  a  wife  nor  a  child, 
nor  a  relation  of  any  kind.  His  life  in  the  woods  was 
just  what  he  had  chosen  for  himself,  and  he  would  not 
have  exchanged  it  for  anything  else  in  the  world ;  but 
sometimes  the  loneliness  of  it  came  over  him,  and  he 
wished  that  he  had  somebody  to  talk  to.  And  now, 
looking  at  those  eggs,  and  thinking  of  the  fledglings  that 
were  coming  to  the  loons,  he  wondered  how  it  would  seem 
if  he  had  some  children  of  his  own.  Pretty  soon  he 
glanced  out  on  the  lake  again,  and  saw  Mahng's  wife 
sitting  quietly  on  the  water,  just  out  of  range. 

"  Hope  she  won't  stay  away  till  they  get  cold,"  he 
thought,  and  went  on  his  way  across  the  swamp.  The 
loon  watched  him  till  he  passed  out  of  sight,  and  then 
she  swam  in  to  the  beach  and  pushed  herself  up  her 
narrow  runway  to  her  old  place.  The  eggs  were  still 
warm. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  trapper  stepped  out  of  the 
bushes  beside  the  pond,  and  caught  sight  of  Mahng's  head 

[195] 


Forest  Neighbors 

sticking  out  of  the  water.  He  was  considerably  aston- 
ished, but  he  promptly  laid  hold  of  the  chain  and  drew 
bird,  trap,  and  all  up  onto  the  bank,  and  then  he  sat 
down  on  a  log  and  laughed  till  the  echoes  went  flying 
back  and  forth  across  the  pond.  Plastered  with  mud, 
dripping  wet,  and  with  his  left  leg  fast  in  the  big  steel 
killing-machine,  Mahng  was  certainly  a  comical  sight. 
All  the  fight  was  soaked  out  of  him,  and  he  lay  prone 
upon  the  ground  and  waited  for  the  trapper  to  do  what  he 
pleased.  But  the  trapper  did  nothing — only  sat  on  his 
log,  and  presently  forgot  to  laugh.  He  was  thinking  of 
the  sitting  loon  whom  he  had  disturbed  a  little  while  be- 
fore. This  was  probably  her  mate,  and  again  there  came 
over  him  a  vague  feeling  that  life  had  been  very  good  to 
these  birds,  and  had  given  them  something  which  he,  the 
man,  had  missed.  He  was  growing  old.  A  few  more 
seasons  and  there  would  be  one  trapper  less  in  the  Great 
Tahquamenon  Swamp ;  and  he  would  die  without — well, 
what  was  the  use  of  talking  or  thinking  about  it  ?  But 
the  loons  would  hatch  their  young,  and  care  for  them  and 
protect  them  until  they  were  ready  to  go  out  into  the 
world,  and  then  they  would  send  them  away  to  the  south. 
A  few  weeks  later  they  would  follow,  and  next  spring 

[196] 


The  Adventures  of  a  Loon 

they  would  come  back  and  do  it  all  over  again.     That  is 
— they  would  if  he  didn't  kill  them. 

He  rose  from  his  log,  smiling  again  at  the  abject  look 
with  which  Mahng  watched  him,  and  putting  one  foot  on 
each  of  the  two  heavy  steel  springs,  he  threw  his  weight 
upon  them  and  crushed  them  down.  Mahng  felt  the 
riaws  relax,  and  suddenly  he  knew  that  he  was  free.  The 
strength  came  back  with  a  rush  to  his  weary  limbs,  and 
he  sprang  up,  scrambled  down  the  bank  and  into  the 
water,  and  was  gone.  A  few  minutes  later  he  reappeared 
far  down  the  pond,  and  rising  on  the  wing  he  flew  away 
with  a  laugh  toward  the  Glimmerglass. 


[197] 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  GLIMMERGLASS 
BUCK 


THE   MAKING   OF  A   GLIMMERGLASS   BUCK 

JL  DON'T  know  that  he  was  a  record-breaker,  but  he 
was  certainly  much  larger  and  more  powerful  than  the 
average  buck,  and  he  was  decidedly  good-looking,  even  for 
a  deer.  There  were  one  or  two  slight  blemishes — to  be 
described  later — in  his  physical  make-up ;  but  they  were 
not  very  serious,  and  except  for  them  he  was  very  hand- 
some and  well-formed.  I  can't  give  you  the  whole  story 
of  his  life,  for  that  would  take  several  books,  but  I  shall 
try  to  tell  you  how  he  became  the  biggest  buck  and  the 
best  fighter  of  his  day  and  generation  in  the  woods  around 
the  Glimmerglass.  He  was  unusually  favored  by  Provi- 
dence, for  besides  being  so  large  and  strong  he  was  given 
a  weapon  such  as  very  few  full-grown  Michigan  bucks 
have  ever  possessed. 

He  had  a  good  start  in  life,  and  it  is  really  no  wonder 
that  he  distanced  all  his  relations.  In  the  first  place,  he 
arrived  in  the  woods  a  little  earlier  in  the  year  than  deer 
babies  usually  do.  This  was  important,  for  it  lengthened 
his  first  summer,  and  gave  more  opportunity  for  growth 

[201] 


Forest  Neighbors 

before  the  return  of  cold  weather.  If  the  winter  had 
lingered,  or  if  there  had  been  late  frosts  or  snow-storms, 
his  early  advent  might  have  been  anything  but  a  blessing ; 
but  the  spring  proved  a  mild  one,  and  there  was  plenty  of 
good  growing  weather  for  fawns.  Then,  too,  his  mother 
was  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  and  for  the  time  being  he 
was  her  only  child.  If  there  had  been  twins,  as  there 
were  the  year  before,  he  would,  of  course,  have  had  to 
share  her  milk  with  a  brother  or  sister ;  but  as  it  was 
he  enjoyed  all  the  benefits  of  a  natural  monopoly,  and  he 
grew  and  prospered  accordingly,  and  was  a  baby  to  be 
proud  of. 

And  his  mother  took  good  care  of  him,  and  never  tried 
to  show  him  off  before  the  other  people  of  the  woods. 
She  knew  that  it  was  far  safer  and  wiser  to  keep  him  con- 
cealed as  long  as  possible,  and  not  let  anyone  know  that 
she  had  him.  So  instead  of  letting  him  wander  with  her 
through  the  woods  when  she  went  in  search  of  food,  she 
generally  left  him  hidden  in  a  thicket  or  behind  a  bush  or 
a  fallen  tree.  There  he  spent  many  a  long,  lonely  hour, 
idly  watching  the  waving  branches  and  the  moving  shad- 
ows, and  perhaps  thinking  dim,  formless,  wordless  baby 
thoughts,  or  looking  at  nothing  and  thinking  of  nothing, 

[202J 


The  Making  of  a  Grlimmerglass  Buck 

but  just  sleeping  the  quiet  sleep  of  infancy,  and  living, 
and  growing,  and  getting  ready  for  hard  times. 

At  first  the  Fawn  knew  no  difference  between  friends 
and  enemies,  but  the  instinct  of  the  hunted  soon  awoke 
and  told  him  when  to  be  afraid.  If  a  hostile  animal  came 
by  while  the  doe  was  gone,  he  would  crouch  low,  with  his 
nose  to  the  ground  and  his  big  ears  laid  back  on  his  neck  ; 
or  if  pressed  too  closely  he  would  jump  up  and  hurry  away 
to  some  better  cover,  with  leaps  and  bounds  so  light  and 
airy  that  they  seemed  the  very  music  of  motion.  But 
that  did  not  happen  very  often.  His  hiding-places  were 
well  chosen,  and  he  usually  lay  still  till  his  mother  came 
back. 

When  she  thought  he  was  large  enough,  and  strong 
and  swift  enough,  she  let  him  travel  with  her  ;  and  then 
he  became  acquainted  with  several  new  kinds  of  forest — 
with  the  dark  hemlock  groves,  and  the  dense  cedar  swamps  ; 
with  the  open  tamarack,  where  the  trees  stand  wide  apart, 
and  between  them  the  great  purple-and-white  ladyVslip- 
pers  bloom  ;  with  the  cranberry  marshes,  where  pitcher- 
plants  live,  and  white-plumed  grasses  nod  in  the  breeze  ; 
with  sandy  ridges  where  the  pine-trees  purr  with  pleasure 
when  the  wind  strokes  them  ;  with  the  broad,  beautiful 

[203] 


Forest  Neighbors 

Glimmerglass,  laughing  and  shimmering  in  the  sunshine, 
and  with  all  the  sights  and  the  sounds  of  that  wonderful 
world  where  he  was  to  spend  the  years  of  his  deerhood. 

They  were  a  very  silent  pair.  When  his  breakfast  was 
ready  she  would  sometimes  call  him  with  a  low  murmur- 
ing, and  he  would  answer  her  with  a  little  bleat ;  but 
those  were  almost  the  only  sounds  that  were  ever  heard 
from  them,  except  the  rustling  of  the  dry  leaves  around 
their  feet.  Yet  they  understood  each  other  perfectly, 
and  they  were  very  happy  together.  There  was  little 
need  of  speech,  for  all  they  had  to  do  the  livelong  day 
was  to  wander  about  while  the  doe  picked  up  her  food, 
and  then,  when  she  had  eaten  her  fill,  to  lie  down  in  some 
sheltered  place,  and  there  rest  and  chew  the  cud  till  it 
was  time  to  move  again. 

Life  wasn^t  all  sunshine,  of  course.  There  were  plenty 
of  hard  things  for  the  baby  Buck  to  put  up  with,  and 
perhaps  the  worst  were  the  mosquitoes  and  the  black- 
flies  and  "  no-see-?ems  "  that  swarmed  in  the  woods  and 
swamps  through  the  month  of  June.  They  got  into  his 
mouth  and  into  his  nose ;  they  gathered  in  circles  around 
his  eyes ;  and  they  snuggled  cosily  down  between  the 
short  hairs  of  his  pretty,  spotted  coat,  and  sucked  the 

[204] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmerglass  Buck 
blood  out  of  him  till  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  soon  go 
dry.  For  a  while  they  were  almost  unbearable,  but  I 
suppose  the  woods-people  get  somewhat  hardened  to 
them.  Otherwise  I  should  think  our  friends  would  have 
been  driven  mad,  for  there  was  never  any  respite  from 
their  attacks,  except  possibly  a  very  stormy  day,  or  a 
bath  in  the  lake,  or  a  saunter  on  the  shore. 

At  the  eastern  end  of  the  Glimmerglass  there  is  a 
broad  strip  of  sand  beach,  where,  if  there  happens  to  be 
a  breeze  from  the  water,  one  can  walk  and  be  quite  free 
from  the  flies ;  though  in  calm  weather,  or  with  an  off- 
shore wind,  it  is  not  much  better  than  the  woods. 
There,  during  fly-time,  the  doe  and  her  baby  were  often 
to  be  found ;  and  to  see  him  promenading  up  and  down 
the  hard  sand,  with  his  mother  looking  on,  was  one  of 
the  prettiest  sights  in  all  the  wilderness.  The  ground- 
color of  his  coat  was  a  bright  bay  red,  somewhat  like  that 
of  his  mother's  summer  clothing ;  but  deeper  and  richer 
and  handsomer,  and  with  pure  white  spots  arranged  in 
irregular  rows  all  along  his  neck  and  back  and  sides.  He 
was  so  sleek  and  polished  that  he  fairly  glistened  in  the 
sunshine,  like  a  well-groomed  horse  ;  his  great  dark  eyes 
were  brighter  than  a  giiTs  at  her  first  ball ;  and  his  ears 

[205J 


Forest  Neighbors 

were  almost  as  big  as  a  mule's,  and  a  million  times  as 
pretty.  But  best  and  most  beautiful  of  all  was  the  mar- 
vellous life  and  grace  and  spirit  of  his  every  pose  and 
motion.  When  he  walked,  his  head  and  neck  were 
thrust  forward  and  drawn  back  again  at  every  step  with 
the  daintiest  gesture  imaginable ;  and  his  tiny  pointed 
hoofs  touched  the  ground  so  lightly,  and  were  away  again 
so  quickly,  that  you  hardly  knew  what  they  had  done. 
If  anything  startled  him,  he  stamped  with  his  forefoot  on 
the  hard  sand,  and  tossed  his  head  in  the  air  with  an  ex- 
pression that  was  not  fear,  but  alertness,  and  even  de- 
fiance. And  when  he  leaped  and  ran — but  there's  no  use 
in  trying  to  describe  that. 

By  the  middle  of  July  most  of  the  flies  were  gone,  and 
the  deer  could  travel  where  they  pleased  without  being 
eaten  alive.  And  then,  almost  before  they  knew  what 
had  happened,  the  summer  was  gone,  too,  and  the  autumn 
had  come.  The  Fawn's  white  spots  disappeared,  and  both 
he  and  his  mother  put  off  their  thin  red  summer  clothing 
and  donned  the  blue  coat  of  fall,  which  would  by  and  by 
fade  into  the  gray  of  winter — a  garment  made  of  longer, 
coarser  hairs,  which  were  so  thick  that  they  had  to  stand 
on  end  because  there  wasn't  room  for  them  to  lie  down, 

[206] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmer  glass  Suck 

and  which  made  such  a  warm  covering  that  one  who 
wore  it  could  sleep  all  night  in  the  snow,  and  rise  in  the 
morning  dry  and  comfortable. 

The  Fawn  had  thriven  wonderfully.  Already  the 
budding  antlers  were  pushing  through  the  skin  on  the 
top  of  his  head,  which  alone  is  pretty  good  proof  that  he 
was  a  remarkable  baby.  But,  of  course,  the  infancy  of  a 
wild  animal  is  always  much  shorter  than  that  of  a  human 
child.  It  is  well  that  this  is  so,  for  if  the  period  of  weak- 
ness and  helplessness  was  not  shortened  for  them,  there 
would  probably  be  very  few  who  would  ever  survive  its 
dangers  and  reach  maturity.  The  Fawn  was  weaned 
early  in  the  autumn ;  though  he  still  ran  with  his  mother, 
and  she  showed  him  what  herbs  and  leaves  were  pleasant- 
est  to  the  taste  and  best  for  building  up  bone  and  mus- 
cle, and  where  the  beechnuts  were  most  plentiful.  The 
mast  was  good  that  fall,  which  isn't  always  the  case,  and 
that  was  another  lucky  star  in  young  Buck's  horoscope. 
So  much  depends  on  having  plenty  to  eat  the  first  year. 

And  now  the  doe  was  thriving  as  well  as  her  son. 
Through  the  summer  she  had  been  thin  and  poor,  for  the 
Fawn  had  fed  on  her  life  and  strength,  and  the  best  of 
all  that  came  to  her  she  had  given  to  him ;  but  the  strain 

[207] 


Forest  Neighbors 

was  over  at  last,  and  there  were  granted  her  a  few  weeks 
in  which  to  prepare  for  the  season  of  cold  and  storm  and 
scanty  food.  She  made  the  best  of  them,  and  in  an 
amazingly  short  time  she  was  rolling  fat. 

Everything  was  lovely  and  the  goose  hung  high,  when 
all  of  a  sudden  the  peace  and  quiet  of  their  every-day 
lives  were  rudely  broken.  The  hunting  season  had  come, 
and  half-a-dozen  farmers  from  lower  Michigan  had 
camped  beside  the  Glimmerglass.  They  were  not  really 
very  formidable.  If  one  wants  to  kill  deer,  one  should 
learn  to  shoot  straight  and  to  get  around  in  the  woods 
without  making  quite  as  much  noise  as  a  locomotive. 
But  their  racket  was  intolerable,  and  after  a  day  or  two 
the  doe  and  the  Fawn  left  home  and  spent  the  next  three 
or  four  weeks  near  a  secluded  little  pond  several  miles 
away  to  the  southeast. 

By  the  first  of  December  these  troublous  times  were 
over,  and  they  had  returned  to  their  old  haunts  in  the 
beech  and  maple  woods,  where  they  picked  up  a  rather 
scanty  living  by  scraping  the  light  snow  away  with 
their  forefeet  in  search  of  the  savory  nuts.  But  before 
Christmas  there  came  a  storm  which  covered  the  ground 
so  deeply  that  they  could  no  longer  dig  out  enough  food 

[208] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmerglass  Buck 

to  keep  them  from  going  hungry ;  and  they  were  forced 
to  leave  the  high  lands  and  make  their  way  to  the  ever- 
green swamps  around  the  head- waters  of  the  Tahqua- 
menon.  There  they  lived  on  twigs  of  balsam  and  hem- 
lock and  spruce,  with  now  and  then  a  mouthful  of  moss 
or  a  nutritious  lichen.  Little  by  little  the  fat  on  their 
ribs  disappeared,  they  grew  lank  and  lean  again,  and  the 
bones  showed  more  and  more  plainly  through  their  heavy 
winter  coats.  If  one  of  those  November  hunters  had 
succeeded  in  setting  his  teeth  in  their  flesh  he  would  have 
found  that  it  had  a  very  pleasant,  nutty  flavor,  but  in 
February  it  would  have  tasted  decidedly  of  hemlock. 
Yet  they  were  strong  and  healthy,  in  spite  of  their  bom- 
ness,  and  of  course  you  can't  expect  to  be  very  fat  in 
winter. 

There  were  worse  things  than  hunger.  One  afternoon 
they  were  following  a  big  buck  down  a  runway — all 
three  of  them  minding  their  own  business  and  behaving 
in  a  very  orderly  and  peaceable  manner — when  a  shanty- 
boy  stepped  out  from  behind  a  big  birch  just  ahead  of 
them,  and  said,  "  Aah  !  "  very  derisively  and  insultingly. 
The  wind  was  blowing  from  them  to  him,  and  they  hadn't 
had  the  least  idea  that  he  was  there  until  they  were  with- 

[209] 


Forest  Neighbors 

in  three  rods  of  his  tree.  The  buck  was  so  startled  that 
for  an  instant  he  simply  stood  still  and  stared,  which 
was  exactly  what  the  shanty- boy  had  expected  him  to 
do.  He  had  stopped  so  suddenly  that  his  forefeet  were 
thrust  forward  into  the  snow,  and  he  was  leaning  back- 
ward a  trifle.  His  head  was  up,  his  eyes  were  almost 
popping  out  of  their  sockets,  and  there  was  such  a  look 
of  astonishment  on  his  face  that  the  man  laughed  as  he 
raised  his  gun  and  took  aim.  In  a  second  the  deer  had 
wheeled  and  was  in  the  air,  but  a  bullet  broke  his  back 
just  as  he  left  the  ground,  and  he  came  tumbling  down 
again  in  a  shapeless  heap.  His  spinal  cord  was  cut,  and 
half  his  body  was  dead ;  but  he  would  not  give  up  even 
then,  and  he  half  rose  on  his  forefeet  and  tried  to  drag 
himself  away.  The  shanty-boy  stepped  to  his  side  with 
a  knife  in  his  hand,  the  deer  gave  one  loud  bleat  of  fear 
and  pain,  and  then  it  was  all  over. 

But  by  that  time  the  doe  and  the  Fawn  were  far  down 
the  runway — out  of  sight,  and  out  of  danger.  Next 
day  they  passed  that  way  again,  and  saw  a  Canada  lynx 
standing  where  the  buck  had  fallen,  licking  his  chops  as 
if  he  had  just  finished  a  good  meal.  It  is  hard  work 
carrying  a  deer  through  the  woods,  and  the  shanty-boy 

[210] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmerglass  Suck 
had  lightened  his  load  as  much  as  possible.     Lynxes  are 
not  nice.     The  mother  and  son  pulled  their  freight  as 
fast  as  they  could  travel. 

When  the  world  turned  green  again  they  went  back  to 
the  Glimmerglass,  but  they  had  not  been  there  long  be- 
fore the  young  Buck  had  his  nose  put  out  of  joint  by  the 
arrival  of  two  new  babies.  Thenceforth  his  mother  had 
all  she  could  do  to  take  care  of  them,  without  paying  any 
further  attention  to  him.  The  days  of  his  fawnhood 
were  over,  and  it  was  time  for  him  to  strike  out  into  the 
world  and  make  his  own  living. 

However,  I  don't  think  he  was  very  lonesome.  There 
were  plenty  of  other  deer  in  the  woods,  and  though  he 
did  not  associate  with  any  of  them  as  he  had  with  his 
mother,  yet  he  may  have  enjoyed  meeting  them  occasion- 
ally in  his  travels.  And  there  was  ever  so  much  to  do 
and  to  think  about.  Eating  took  up  a  good  deal  of 
time,  for  he  was  very  active  and  was  still  growing,  and 
his  strong  young  body  was  constantly  calling  for  more 
food.  And  it  wasn't  enough  merely  to  find  the  food  and 
swallow  it,  for  no  sooner  was  his  stomach  full  than  he 
had  to  lie  down  and  chew  the  cud  for  an  hour  or  so. 
And,  of  course,  the  black -flies  and  mosquitoes  and  u  no- 

[211] 


Forest  Neighbors 

see-'ems  "  helped  to  make  things  interesting,  just  as  they 
had  the  year  before.  Strictly  speaking,  it  is  impossible 
to  be  lonely  in  the  woods  during  fly-time.  He  changed 
his  clothes,  too,  and  put  on  a  much  handsomer  dress, 
though  I  doubt  if  he  took  as  much  interest  in  that  opera- 
tion as  most  of  us  would.  The  change  contributed 
greatly  to  his  comfort,  for  his  light  summer  garment  was 
much  better  adapted  to  warm  weather  than  his  winter 
coat,  but  it  did  not  require  any  conscious  effort  on  his 
part.  On  hot  days  he  sometimes  waded  out  into  the 
lake  in  search  of  lily-pads,  and  the  touch  of  the  cool 
water  was  very  grateful.  Occasionally  he  would  take  a 
long  swim,  and  once  or  twice  he  paddled  clear  across  the 
Glimmerglass,  from  one  shore  to  the  other. 

And  it  was  during  this  summer  that  he  raised  his  first 
real  antlers.  Those  of  the  previous  autumn  had  been 
nothing  but  two  little  buds  of  bone,  but  these  were 
pointed  spikes,  several  inches  in  length,  standing  straight 
up  from  the  top  of  his  head  without  a  fork  or  a  branch  or 
a  curve.  They  did  not  add  very  much  to  his  good  looks, 
and,  of  course,  they  dropped  off  early  in  the  following 
winter,  but  they  were  the  forerunners  of  the  beautiful 
branching  antlers  of  his  later  years,  and  if  he  thought 

[212] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmer  glass  Buck 

about  them  at  all  they  were  probably  as  welcome  as  a 
boy's  first  mustache. 

Late  in  the  following  autumn  an  event  occurred  which 
left  its  mark  on  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  One  night 
he  wandered  into  a  part  of  the  woods  where  some  lumber- 
men had  been  working  during  the  day.  On  the  ground 
where  they  had  eaten  their  lunch  he  found  some  baked 
beans  and  a  piece  of  dried  apple-pie,  and  he  ate  them 
greedily  and  was  glad  that  he  had  come.  But  he  found 
something  else,  too.  One  of  the  road-monkeys  had  care- 
lessly left  his  axe  in  the  snow  with  the  edge  turned  up. 
The  Buck  stepped  on  it,  and  it  slipped  in  between  the 
two  halves  of  his  cloven  hoof,  and  cut  deep  into  his  foot. 
The  wound  healed  in  the  course  of  time,  but  from  that 
night  the  toes — they  were  those  of  his  left  hind  foot — 
were  spread  far  apart,  instead  of  lying  close  together  as 
they  should  have  done.  Sticks  and  roots  sometimes 
caught  between  them  in  a  way  that  was  very  annoying, 
and  his  track  was  different  from  that  of  any  other  deer  in 
the  woods,  which  was  not  a  thing  to  be  desired.  He  was 
not  crippled,  however,  for  he  could  still  leap  almost,  if  not 
quite,  as  far  as  ever,  and  run  almost  as  fast. 

He  continued  to  grow  and  prosper,  and  the  next 
[213] 


Forest  Neighbors 

summer  he  raised  a  pair  of  forked  antlers  with  two 
tines  each. 

And  now  he  is  well  started  down  the  runway  of  life, 
and  we  must  leave  him  to  travel  by  himself  for  two  or 
three  years.  He  ranged  the  woods  far  and  near,  and 
came  to  know  them  as  a  man  knows  his  own  house  ;  but 
no  matter  what  places  he  visited,  the  old  haunts  that  his 
mother  had  shown  him  were  the  best  of  all,  as  the  deer 
have  learned  by  the  experience  of  generation  after  genera- 
tion. He  always  came  back  again  to  the  Glimmerglass, 
and  as  the  seasons  went  by  I  often  saw  his  broad,  spread- 
ing hoof-print  on  the  sandy  beach  where  they  two  had  so 
often  walked  in  that  first  summer.  He  evidently  had 
plenty  of  company,  and  was  probably  enjoying  life,  for 
all  around  were  other  foot-prints  that  were  narrow  and 
delicately  pointed,  as  a  deer's  should  be.  Some  of  them, 
of  course,  were  his  own,  left  by  his  three  perfect  feet ;  but 
others  were  those  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  it 
is  quite  possible  that  some  of  the  tiniest  and  daintiest 
were  made  by  his  children. 

That  beach  is  a  delightful  place  for  a  promenade  on  a 
summer  night,  and  besides  the  deer- tracks  one  can  some- 
times find  there  the  trails  of  the  waddling  porcupines,  the 

[214] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmer  glass  Suck 
broad,  heavy  print  left  by  a  black  bear  as  he  goes  sham* 
bling  by,  and  the  handwriting  of  many  another  of  the 
woods-people.  Strange  and  interesting  scenes  must  often 
be  enacted  on  the  smooth,  hard  sand  that  lies  between  the 
woods  and  the  water,  and  it  is  a  pity  that  the  show  al- 
ways comes  to  a  sudden  close  if  any  would-be  spectators 
appear,  and  that  we  never  see  anything  but  the  foot-prints 
of  the  performers. 

With  each  recurring  hunting  season  the  Buck  and  the 
other  deer  that  made  their  homes  around  the  Glimmer- 
glass  were  driven  away  for  a  time.  A  few  stayed,  or  at 
least  remained  as  near  as  they  dared ;  but  compared  with 
summer  the  neighborhood  was  almost  depopulated.  And 
in  his  fourth  year,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  keep  out 
of  harm's  way,  the  Buck  came  very  near  losing  his  life  at 
the  hands  of  a  man  who  had  really  learned  how  to  hunt 
—not  one  of  the  farmers  who  went  ramming  about  the 
woods,  shooting  at  everything  in  sight,  and  making  noise 
enough  to  startle  even  the  porcupines. 

One  afternoon,  late  in  the  autumn,  the  judge  left  his 
court-room  in  Detroit  and  started  for  his  house.  He 
bought  an  evening  paper  as  he  boarded  the  street-car; 
and,  as  Fate  would  have  it,  the  first  thing  that  met  his 

[215] 


Forest  Neighbors 

eye  as  he  unfolded  it  was  the  forecast  for  upper  Michi- 
gan :  "  Colder ;  slight  snow-fall ;  light  northerly  winds." 
The  judge  folded  the  paper  again  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  way  home  he  was  dream- 
ing of  things  that  he  had  seen  before — of  the  white  and 
silent  woods,  of  deer-tracks  in  the  inch-deep  snow,  of  the 
long  still-hunt  under  dripping  branches  and  gray  Novem- 
ber skies,  of  a  huge  buck  feeding  unconcernedly  beneath 
the  beech-trees,  of  nutty  venison  steaks  broiling  on  the 
coals,  and,  finally,  of  another  pair  of  antlers  for  his  din- 
ing-room. Court  had  adjourned  for  three  days,  and  that 
night  he  took  the  train  for  the  north.  And  while  he 
travelled,  the  snow  came  down  softly  and  silently,  melting 
at  first  as  fast  as  it  fell,  and  then,  as  the  cold  grew 
sharper,  clothing  the  woods  in  a  thin,  white  robe,  the  first 
gift  of  the  coming  winter. 

Next  day  the  Buck  was  lying  behind  a  fallen  tree, 
chewing  his  cud,  when  the  breeze  brought  him  a  whiff  of 
an  unpleasant  human  odor.  He  jumped  up  and  hurried 
away,  and  the  judge  heard  him  crash  through  the  bushes, 
and  searched  until  he  had  found  his  trail.  An  hour 
later,  as  the  Buck  was  nosing  for  beechnuts  in  the  snow, 
a  rifle  cracked  and  a  bullet  went  zipping  by  and  carried 

[216] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmer  glass  Buck 

off  the  very  tip  of  his  left  antler.  He  dropped  his  white 
flag  and  was  off  like  a  shot. 

Chase  a  wounded  deer,  and  he  will  run  for  miles ;  leave 
him  alone,  and  if  he  is  badly  hurt  he  will  soon  lie  down. 
The  chances  are  that  he  will  never  get  up  again.  The 
judge  knew  that  the  Buck  was  hit,  for  he  had  seen  his 
tail  come  down.  But  was  he  hit  hard  ?  There  was  no 
blood  on  the  trail,  and  the  judge  decided  to  follow. 

The  Buck  hurried  on,  but  before  long  his  leaps  began 
to  grow  shorter.  After  a  mile  or  so  he  stopped,  looked 
back,  and  listened.  The  woods  were  very,  very  still,  and 
for  all  that  he  could  see  or  hear  there  was  not  the  least 
sign  of  danger.  Yet  he  was  afraid,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes he  pushed  on  again,  though  not  as  rapidly  as 
before.  As  the  short  afternoon  wore  away  he  travelled 
still  more  slowly,  and  his  stops  were  longer  and  more 
frequent.  And  at  last,  just  before  sunset,  as  he  stood 
and  watched  for  the  enemy  who  might  or  might  not  be 
on  his  trail,  he  heard  a  twig  snap,  and  saw  a  dark  form 
slip  behind  a  tree.  This  time  he  ran  as  he  had  never 
run  before  in  all  his  life. 

The  judge  spent  the  night  at  the  nearest  lumber-camp, 
and  the  next  morning  he  was  out  again  as  soon  as  he 

[217] 


Forest  Neighbors 

could  see,  following  his  own  trail  back  to  where  he  had 
left  that  of  the  Buck.  On  the  way  he  crossed  the  tracks 
of  two  other  deer,  but  they  had  no  temptations  for  him. 
He  wanted  to  solve  the  mystery  of  that  spreading  hoof- 
print,  and  to  make  sure  that  his  shot  had  not  been  a  clean 
miss.  And  now  began  a  day  which  was  without  precedent 
in  the  Buck's  whole  history.  Those  woods  are  not  the 
best  in  the  world  for  a  deer  who  has  to  play  hide-and-seek 
with  a  man,  for  there  are  few  bare  ridges  or  half-wooded 
slopes  from  which  he  can  look  back  to  see  if  anyone  is 
following  him.  Even  the  glades  and  the  open  cranberry 
swamps  are  small  and  infrequent.  An  almost  unbroken 
forest  sweeps  away  in  every  direction,  and  everywhere 
there  is  cover  for  the  still-hunter.  And  when  the  ground 
is  carpeted  with  snow  an  inch  and  a  half  deep,  as  it  was 
then,  and  at  every  step  a  deer  must  leave  behind  him  a 
trail  as  plain  as  a  turnpike  road,  then  it  is  not  strange  if 
he  feels  that  he  has  run  up  against  a  decidedly  tough 
proposition.  Eyes,  ears,  and  nose  are  all  on  the  alert,  and 
all  doing  their  level  best,  but  what  eye  can  penetrate  the 
cedar  swamp  beyond  a  few  yards ;  or  what  ear  can  always 
catch  the  tread  of  a  moccasin  on  the  moss  and  the  snow 
before  it  comes  within  rifle  range;  or  what  nose,  no  mat- 

[218] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmerglass  Buck 
ter  how  delicate,  can  detect  anything  but  what  happens 
to  lie  in  its  owner's  path,  or  what  the  wind  chooses  to 
bring  it  ?  Many  a  foe  had  crossed  the  Buck's  trail  in  the 
course  of  his  life ;  but  none  had  ever  followed  him  like 
this — silently  and  relentlessly — slowly,  but  without  a  mo- 
ment's pause.  A  few  leaps  were  always  enough  to  put 
the  judge  out  of  sight,  and  half  an  hour's  run  left  him 
far  behind;  but  in  a  little  while  he  was  there  again, 
creeping  cautiously  through  the  undergrowth,  and  peer- 
ing this  way  and  that  for  a  glimpse  of  a  plump,  round, 
blue-gray  body.  Once  he  fired  before  the  deer  knew  that 
he  was  at  hand,  and  if  a  hanging  twig  had  not  turned 
the  bullet  a  trifle  from  its  course,  the  still-hunt  would 
have  ended  then  and  there. 

But  late  in  the  afternoon  the  Buck  thought  that  he 
had  really  shaken  his  pursuer  off,  and  the  judge  was  be- 
ginning to  think  so,  too.  They  had  not  seen  each  other 
for  two  or  three  hours,  the  day  was  nearly  over,  and 
there  were  signs  of  a  change  in  the  weather.  If  the  Buck 
could  hold  out  till  nightfall,  and  then  the  snow  should 
melt  before  morning,  he  would  be  comparatively  ,safe. 

In  his  fear  of  the  enemy  lurking  in  the  rear,  he  had 
forgotten  all  other  dangers  ;  and  without  quite  realizing 

[8101 


Forest  Neighbors 

what  he  was  doing  he  had  come  back  to  the  Glimmer- 
glass,  and  was  tramping  once  more  up  and  down  the  old 
familiar  runways.  Presently  he  came  upon  a  huge  maple, 
lying  prostrate  on  the  ground.  He  walked  around  its 
great  bushy  head  and  down  toward  its  foot ;  and  there 
he  found  a  broad,  saucer-shaped  hollow,  left  when  the 
tree  was  torn  up  by  the  roots  in  some  wild  gale.  On  one 
side  rose  a  mass  of  earth,  straight  as  a  stone  wall  and 
four  or  five  feet  in  height ;  and  against  its  foot  lay  one 
of  the  most  tempting  beds  of  dead  leaves  that  he  had  ever 
seen,  free  from  snow,  dry  as  a  whistle,  soft  and  downy. 
The  sight  of  it  was  too  much  for  him.  He  was  very 
weary,  his  limbs  fairly  ached  with  fatigue,  and  for  the 
last  hour  his  spread  hoof  had  given  him  a  good  deal  of 
pain.  His  enemy  was  nowhere  in  sight,  and  in  spite  of 
his  misgivings  he  sank  down  on  the  couch  with  a  sigh  of 
comfort,  and  began  to  chew  his  cud. 

The  judge  was  about  ready  to  give  up  for  the  night 
when  he,  too,  came  upon  that  fallen  maple.  He  saw  the 
wall  of  earth  and  twisted  roots,  with  the  deer- tracks  lead- 
ing toward  it ;  and  slowly,  softly,  silently,  he  crept  down 
toward  the  Buck's  shelter. 

There  was  no  wind  that  evening,  and  the  woods  seemed 
[220] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmer  glass  Buck 

perfectly  still ;  but  now,  unnoticed  by  the  judge,  a  faint, 
faint  puff  came  wandering  among  the  trees,  as  if  on  pur- 
pose to  warn  the  deer  of  his  danger.  Suddenly  he  started, 
sniffed  the  air,  and  was  up  and  away  like  a  race-horse — 
not  leaping  nor  bounding  now,  but  running  low,  with  his 
head  down,  and  his  antlers  laid  back  on  his  neck.  If  he 
had  been  in  the  cedar  swamp  he  would  have  escaped  un- 
hurt, but  up  in  the  hardwood  the  trees  do  not  stand  so 
close,  and  one  can  see  a  little  farther.  The  judge  fired 
before  he  could  get  out  of  sight,  and  he  dropped  with 
three  ribs  broken  and  a  bullet  lodged  behind  his  right 
shoulder.  He  was  up  again  in  an  instant,  but  there 
were  blood-stains  on  the  snow  where  he  had  lain,  and 
this  time  the  judge  did  not  follow.  Instead  of  giving 
chase  he  went  straight  back  to  the  lumber-camp,  feeling 
almost  as  sure  of  that  new  pair  of  antlers  as  if  he  had 
earned  them  with  him. 

The  Buck  ran  a  little  way,  with  his  flag  lowered  and 
the  blood  spurting,  and  then  he  lay  down  to  rest,  just  as 
the  judge  knew  he  would.  The  bleeding  soon  stopped, 
but  it  left  him  very  weak  and  tired,  and  that  night  was 
the  most  miserable  he  had  ever  known.  The  darkness 
settled  down  thick  and  black  over  the  woods,  the  wind 


Forest  Neighbors 

began  to  blow,  and  by  and  by  the  rain  commenced  ta 
fall — first  a  drizzle,  and  then  a  steady  pour.  Cold  and 
wet,  wounded  and  tired  and  hungry,  the  Buck  was  about 
as  wretched  as  it  is  possible  for  a  mortal  to  be.  And 
yet  that  rain  was  the  one  and  only  thing  that  could 
save  him.  Under  its  melting  touch  the  snow  began  to 
disappear,  and  before  morning  the  ground  was  bare  again. 
Even  the  blood-stains  were  washed  away.  It  would  take 
a  better  nose  than  the  judged  to  track  him  now. 

Yet  the  danger  was  not  over,  by  any  means.  The 
judge  knew  very  nearly  where  to  look  for  him,  and  could 
probably  find  him  if  he  did  not  get  up  and  move  on. 
And  to  move  on,  or  even  to  rise  to  his  feet,  seemed  ut- 
terly impossible.  The  least  motion  sent  the  most  exquis- 
ite pain  shooting  through  his  whole  body,  and  I  believe 
he  would  have  died  where  he  lay,  either  at  the  hands  of 
the  judge  or  from  exhaustion,  if  another  man  hadn't 
come  along.  The  judge  would  have  advanced  slowly  and 
quietly,  and  the  deer  might  never  have  known  he  was 
coming  till  a  rifle  bullet  hit  him  ;  but  this  man's  errand 
must  have  been  a  different  one,  for  he  came  striding  noi- 
sily through  the  trees  and  bushes  and  over  the  dead  leaves, 
whistling  "  I  Want  Yer,  Ma  Honey,"  at  the  top  of  his 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmerglass  Buck 
whistle.  If  you  are  obliged  to  be  out  in  the  woods  dur- 
ing the  hunting  season,  and  don't  care  to  kill  anything, 
it  is  always  best  to  make  as  much  noise  as  you  can. 
There  is  less  danger  that  some  other  fool  will  take  you 
for  a  deer  and  shoot  you  dead.  The  Buck  heard  him,  of 
course,  and  tried  to  rise,  only  to  sink  back  with  a  groan. 
He  couldn't  do  it,  or  at  least  he  thought  he  couldn't. 
But  when  the  man  came  around  a  little  balsam  only  two 
rods  away,  then  his  panic  got  the  better  of  his  pain,  and 
he  jumped  up  and  made  off  at  a  clumsy,  limping  run. 
Every  joint  seemed  on  fire,  and  he  ached  from  the  top  of 
his  head  to  the  toes  of  that  poor  left  hind-foot.  But 
after  the  first  plunge  it  was  not  quite  so  bad.  The  mo- 
tion took  some  of  the  stiffness  out  of  his  limbs,  and  by 
the  time  the  judge  arrived  he  was  a  mile  away  and  was 
thinking  about  breakfast. 

We  must  do  the  sportsman  the  justice  of  saying  that 
his  remorse  was  very  keen  when  he  stepped  aboard  the 
train  that  night,  bound  for  Detroit.  He  had  wounded  a 
deer  and  had  let  it  get  away  from  him,  to  suffer,  and 
probably  to  die  a  painful,  lingering  death.  The  whole 
day — the  last  of  the  hunting  season  and  of  his  court  re- 
cess—had been  spent  in  an  unavailing  search  ;  not  merely 


Forest  Neighbors 

because  he  wanted  some  venison  and  a  pair  of  antlers  to 
carry  home  with  him,  but  because  he  wanted  to  put  the 
Buck  out  of  his  misery.  He  had  failed  everywhere,  and 
he  felt  sorry  and  ashamed,  and  wished  he  had  stayed  at 
home.  But,  as  it  happened,  the  Buck  did  not  want  to 
be  put  out  of  his  misery.  Just  as  the  judge  took  the 
train  he  was  lying  down  for  the  night.  He  would  be 
stiff  when  he  rose  again,  but  not  as  stiff  as  he  had  been 
that  morning.  He  would  be  weak  and  tired,  but  he 
would  still  be  able  to  travel  and  find  food.  He  would 
lose  his  plumpness  and  roundness,  no  doubt,  and  lose 
them  very  rapidly.  The  winter  would  probably  be  a  hard 
one,  with  such  a  misfortune  as  this  at  its  very  beginning. 
But  no  matter,  it  would  pass.  He  wasn't  the  first  Buck 
who  had  had  his  ribs  smashed  by  an  injection  of  lead  and 
had  lived  to  tell  the  tale. 

The  next  year  it  was  his  antlers  that  got  him  into 
trouble  —  his  antlers  and  his  quarrelsomeness.  Two 
round,  black,  velvet-covered  knobs  had  appeared  in  spring 
on  the  top  of  his  head,  and  had  pushed  up  higher  and 
higher  till  they  formed  cylindrical  columns,  each  one 
leaning  outward  and  a  little  backward.  They  were  hot 
as  fever  with  the  blood  that  was  rushing  through  them, 

[224] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmer  glass  Buck 

building  up  the  living  masonry ;  and  at  the  upper  ends, 
where  the  work  was  newest,  they  were  soft  and  spongy, 
and  very  sensitive,  so  that  the  least  touch  was  enough  to 
give  pain.  Longer  and  longer  they  grew,  and  harder 
and  harder ;  by  and  by  curving  forward  and  inward ;  and 
one  after  another  the  tines  appeared.  And  at  last,  in 
the  early  autumn,  the  tall  towers  of  bone  were  complete, 
the  blood  ceased  to  course  through  them,  and  the  Buck 
rubbed  them  against  the  tree-trunks  until  the  velvety 
skin  was  all  worn  off,  and  they  were  left  smooth  and 
brown  and  polished.  They  were  a  handsome  pair,  spread- 
ing and  branching  very  gracefully  over  his  forehead,  and 
bearing  four  tines  to  each  beam.  It  is  a  mistake  to  sup- 
pose, as  so  many  people  do,  that  the  number  of  tines  on 
each  antler  invariably  corresponds  to  the  number  of  years 
that  its  owner  has  lived ;  but  it  very  often  does,  espe- 
cially before  he  has  passed  the  prime  of  life. 

No  sooner  were  the  antlers  finished  than  the  Buck 
began  to  grow  fat.  He  had  been  eating  heartily  for 
months,  but  he  hadn't  been  able  to  put  much  flesh  on  his 
ribs  as  long  as  he  had  that  big,  bony  growth  to  feed. 
Bucks  and  does  are  alike  in  this,  that  for  both  of  them 
the  summer  is  a  season  of  plenty,  but  not  of  growing 

[225] 


Forest  Neighbors 

plump  and  round  and  strong.  The  difference  between 
them  is  that  the  does  give  their  strength  and  vitality  to 
the  children  they  are  nursing,  while  the  bucks  pile  theirs 
up  on  their  own  foreheads. 

And  there  was  another  change  which  came  with  the 
autumn.  Through  the  summer  he  had  been  quiet  and 
gentle,  and  had  attended  very  strictly  to  his  own  affairs  ; 
but  now  the  life  and  vigor  and  vitality  which  for  weeks 
and  months  had  been  pouring  into  that  tall,  beautiful 
structure  on  his  forehead  were  all  surging  like  a  tide 
through  his  whole  body  ;  and  he  became  very  passionate 
and  excitable,  and  spent  much  time  in  rushing  about  the 
woods  in  search  of  other  deer,  fighting  those  of  his  own 
sex,  and  making  love  to  the  does.  The  year  was  at  its 
high-water  mark,  and  the  Buck  was  nearing  his  prime. 
Food  was  plenty;  everywhere  the  beechnuts  were  drop- 
ping on  the  dry  leaves ;  the  autumn  sunshine  was  warm 
and  mellow ;  the  woods  were  gay  with  scarlet  and  gold 
and  brown,  and  the  very  taste  of  the  air  was  enough  to 
make  one  happy.  Was  it  any  wonder  if  he  sometimes 
felt  as  if  he  would  like  to  fight  every  other  buck  in 
Michigan,  and  all  of  them  at  once  ? 

One  afternoon  in  October  he  fought  a  battle  with 
[226] 


"  The  buck  was  Hearing  the  prime  of  life. 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmer  glass  Buck 

another  buck  who  was  very  nearly  his  match  in  size  and 
strength — a  battle  that  came  near  being  the  end  of  both 
of  them.  There  was  a  doe  just  vanishing  among  the 
bushes  when  the  fuss  began,  and  the  question  at  issue  was 
which  should  follow  her  and  which  shouldn't.  It  would 
be  easy  enough  to  find  her,  for,  metaphorically  speaking, 
"  her  feet  had  touched  the  meadows,  and  left  the  daisies 
rosy."  Wherever  she  went,  a  faint,  faint  fragrance  clung 
to  the  dead  leaves,  far  too  delicate  for  a  human  nose  to 
detect,  yet  quite  strong  enough  for  a  buck  to  follow.  But 
the  trail  wasn't  broad  enough  for  two,  and  the  first  thing 
to  be  done  was  to  have  a  scrap  and  see  which  was  the 
better  and  more  deserving  deer.  And,  as  it  turned 
out,  the  scent  grew  cold  again,  and  the  doe  never  heard 
that  eager  patter  of  hoofs  hurrying  down  the  runway 
behind  her. 

The  bucks  came  together  like  two  battering-rams,  with 
a  great  clatter  and  clash  of  antlers,  but  after  the  first 
shock  the  fight  seemed  little  more  than  a  pushing-match. 
Each  one  was  constantly  trying  to  catch  the  other  off  his 
guard  and  thrust  a  point  into  his  flesh,  but  they  never 
succeeded.  A  pair  of  widely  branching  antlers  is  as  use- 
ful in  warding  off  blows  as  in  delivering  them.  Such  a 


Forest  Neighbors 

perfect  shield  does  it  make,  when  properly  handled,  that 
at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  neither  of  the  bucks  was  suffer- 
ing from  anything  but  fatigue,  and  the  issue  was  as  far  as 
ever  from  being  settled.  There  was  foam  on  their  lips, 
and  sweat  on  their  sides  ;  their  mouths  were  open,  and 
their  breath  came  in  gasps  ;  every  muscle  was  working  its 
hardest,  pushing  and  shoving  and  guarding ;  and  they 
drove  each  other  backward  and  forward  through  the 
bushes,  and  ploughed  up  the  ground,  and  scattered  the  dry 
leaves  in  their  struggles ;  and  yet  there  was  not  a  scratch 
on  either  shapely  body. 

Finally,  they  backed  off  and  rushed  together  again  with 
such  violence  that  our  Buck's  antlers  were  forced  apart 
just  a  trifle,  and  his  enemy's  slipped  in  between  them. 
There  was  a  little  snap  as  they  sprang  back  into  position, 
and  the  mischief  was  done.  The  two  foes  were  locked 
together  in  an  embrace  which  death  itself  could  not 
loosen. 

The  next  few  weeks  were  worse  than  a  nightmare.  If 
one  went  forward,  the  other  had  to  go  backward ;  and 
neither  could  go  anywhere  or  do  anything  without  get- 
ting the  consent  of  the  other  or  else  carrying  him  along 
by  main  force.  Many  things  could  not  be  done  at  all — 

[228] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmerglass  Buck 
not  even  when  both  were  willing  and  anxious  to  do  them. 
They  could  not  run  or  leap.  They  could  not  see,  except 
out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes.  They  would  never  again 
toss  those  beautiful  antlers  in  the  air,  for  they  had  come 
together  with  their  heads  held  low,  and  in  that  position 
they  must  remain.  They  could  not  even  lie  down  without 
twisting  their  necks  till  they  ached  as  if  they  were  break- 
ing. With  their  noses  to  the  ground,  and  with  anger 
and  misery  in  their  hearts,  they  pushed  and  hauled  each 
other  this  way  and  that  through  the  woods.  And  where- 
ever  they  went,  they  were  always  struggling  and  fighting 
and  striving  for  every  mouthful  of  food  that  came  within 
reach.  It  was  little  enough  that  they  found  at  the  best, 
and  it  would  have  been  better  for  both  of  them  if  they 
could  have  agreed  to  divide  it  evenly,  but  of  course  that 
would  have  been  asking  too  much  of  deer  nature.  Each 
took  all  he  could  get,  and  at  first  they  were  so  evenly 
matched  that  each  secured  somewhere  near  his  fair  share. 
They  spied  a  beechnut  on  the  ground,  or  a  bit  of  lichen, 
or  a  tender  twig ;  and  together  they  made  a  dive  for  it. 
Two  noses  were  thrust  forward — no,  not  forward,  side- 
wise — and  two  mouths  were  open  to  grasp  the  precious 
morsel  which  would  enable  its  possessor  to  keep  up  the 

[229] 


Forest  Neighbors 

fight  a  little  longer.  Sometimes  one  got  it,  and  some- 
times the  other ;  but  from  the  very  beginning  our  Buck 
was  a  shade  the  stronger,  and  his  superiority  grew  with 
every  mouthful  that  he  managed  to  wrest  from  his  fellow- 
prisoner.  Both  of  them  were  losing  flesh  rapidly,  but  he 
kept  his  longer  than  the  other.  And  at  last  they  reached 
the  point  where,  by  reason  of  his  greater  strength,  he  got 
everything  and  the  other  nothing,  and  then  the  end  was 
near.  It  would  have  come  long  before  if  both  had  not 
been  in  prime  condition  on  the  day  of  the  battle. 

One  dark,  stormy  night  the  two  deer  were  stumbling 
and  floundering  over  roots  and  bushes,  trying  to  find 
their  way  down  to  the  beach  for  a  drink.  Both  of  them 
were  pretty  well  used  up ;  and  one  was  so  weak  that  he 
could  hardly  stand,  and  could  only  walk  by  leaning 
heavily  on  the  head  and  antlers  of  the  other,  who  sup- 
ported him  because  he  was  obliged  to,  and  not  out  of 
friendliness.  They  were  within  a  few  rods  of  the  beach 
when  he  whose  strength  was  least  stepped  into  a  hole  and 
fell,  and  his  leg-bone  snapped  like  a  dry  twig.  He  strug- 
gled and  tried  to  rise ;  but  his  story  was  told,  and  before 
morning  he  was  dead.  For  once  our  Buck's  instinct  of 
self-preservation  had  carried  him  too  far.  He  had  taken 

[230] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmerglass  Buck 

all  the  food  for  himself,  and  had  starved  his  enemy ;  and 
now  he  was  bound  face  to  face  to  a  corpse. 

Well,  we  won't  talk  about  that.  He  stayed  there 
twenty-four  hours,  and  there  would  soon  have  been  two 
dead  bucks  instead  of  one  if  something  had  not  happened 
which  he  did  not  in  the  least  expect — something  which 
seemed  like  a  blessed  miracle,  yet  which  was  really  the  sim- 
plest and  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  A  buck  has  no 
fixed  time  for  the  casting  of  his  antlers.  It  usually  occurs 
during  the  first  half  of  the  winter,  but  it  has  been  known 
to  take  place  as  early  as  November  and  as  late  as  April. 
The  second  night  passed,  and  as  it  began  to  grow  light 
again  our  friend  lifted  himself  on  his  knees  and  his  hind- 
legs,  and  wrestled  mightily  with  his  horrible  bed-fellow ; 
and  suddenly  his  left  antler  came  loose  from  his  head. 
The  right  one  was  still  fast,  but  it  was  easily  disengaged 
from  the  tangle  of  branching  horns,  and  in  a  moment  he 
stood  erect.  The  blood  was  running  down  his  face  from 
the  pedicel  where  the  antler  had  stood,  and  he  was  so 
weak  and  dizzy  that  his  legs  could  hardly  carry  him,  and 
so  thin  and  wasted  that  he  seemed  the  mere  shadow  of 
his  former  self.  But  he  was  free,  and  that  long,  horrible 
dream  was  over  at  last. 

[231] 


Forest  Neighbors 

He  tried  to  walk  toward  the  lake,  but  fell  before  he 
had  taken  half-a-dozen  steps  ;  and  for  an  hour  he  lay 
still  and  rested.  It  was  like  a  taste  of  heaven,  just  to  be 
able  to  hold  his  neck  straight.  The  sun  had  risen  by  the 
time  he  was  ready  to  try  it  again,  and  through  the  trees 
he  saw  the  shimmer  and  sparkle  of  the  Glimmerglass.  He 
heard  the  wind  talking  to  itself  in  the  branches  over- 
head, and  the  splashing  of  the  ripples  on  the  beach  ; 
and  he  staggered  down  to  the  margin  and  drank  long 
and  deep. 

That  December  was  a  mild  one.  The  first  light  snow 
had  already  come  and  gone,  and  the  next  two  weeks  were 
bright  and  sunshiny.  The  Buck  ate  as  he  had  never 
eaten  before,  and  it  was  astonishing  to  see  how  rapidly 
he  picked  up,  and  how  much  he  gained  before  Christmas. 
His  good  luck  seemed  to  follow  him  month  after  month, 
for  the  winter  was  comparatively  open,  the  snow  was  not 
as  deep  as  usual,  and  the  spring  came  early.  By  that 
time  the  ill  effects  of  his  terrible  experience  had  almost 
entirely  disappeared,  and  he  was  in  nearly  as  good  con- 
dition as  is  usual  with  the  deer  at  that  season  of  the  year 
— which,  of  course,  isn't  really  saying  very  much. 

Again,  Nature's  table  was  spread  with  good  things,  and 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmerglass  Buck 

again  he  set  to  work  to  build  a  pair  of  antlers — a  pair 
that  should  be  larger  and  handspmer  than  any  that  had 
gone  before.  But  as  the  summer  lengthened  it  became 
evident  that  there  was  something  wrong  with  those  antlers, 
or  at  least  with  one  of  them.  One  seemed  to  be  quite 
perfect.  It  was  considerably  longer  than  those  of  last 
year,  its  curve  was  just  right,  and  it  had  five  tines,  which 
was  the  correct  number  and  all  that  he  could  have  asked. 
But  the  other,  the  left,  was  nothing  but  a  straight,  pointed 
spike,  perhaps  eight  inches  in  length,  shaped  almost  ex- 
actly like  those  of  his  first  pair.  The  Buck  never  knew 
the  reason  for  this  deformity,  and  I'm  not  at  all  cer- 
tain about  it  myself,  though  I  have  a  theory.  One 
stormy  day  in  the  early  summer,  a  falling  branch,  torn 
from  a  tree-top  by  the  wind,  had  struck  squarely  on  that 
growing  antler,  then  only  a  few  inches  long.  It  hurt  him 
so  that  for  a  moment  he  was  fairly  blind  and  dizzy,  and 
it  is  quite  possible  that  the  soft,  half- formed  bone  was  so 
injured  that  it  could  never  reach  its  full  development. 
Anyhow,  it  made  him  a  rather  queer-looking  buck,  with 
one  perfect  antler  and  one  spike.  But  in  everything  else 
— except  his  spread  hoof — he  was  without  spot  or  blem- 
ish. He  had  well  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  youth,  and 


Forest  Neighbors 

he  was  big  and  strong  and  beautiful.  Something  he  had 
lost,  no  doubt,  of  the  grace  and  daintiness  of  his  babv 
days  ;  but  he  had  also  gained  much — gained  in  stateliness 
and  dignity,  as  well  as  in  size  and  weight  and  strength. 
And  even  that  spike  antler  was  not  without  its  advantages, 
as  he  learned  a  little  later. 

As  the  autumn  came  round  he  was  just  as  excitable  and 
passionate,  just  as  ready  for  fighting  or  love-making,  as 
ever,  and  not  one  whit  subdued  by  the  disaster  of  the 
year  before.  And  so  one  day  he  had  another  battle  with 
another  buck,  while  another  doe — or  perhaps  the  same 
one — made  off  through  the  trees  and  left  a  fragrant  trail 
behind  her.  He  and  his  adversary  went  at  each  other  in 
the  usual  way,  and  for  some  time  it  seemed  unlikely  that 
either  of  them  could  ever  do  anything  more  than  tire  the 
other  out  by  hard  pushing.  There  was  little  danger  that 
their  antlers  would  get  locked  this  time,  with  one  pair  so 
badly  mismated  ;  and  it  bade  fair  to  be  a  very  ordinary, 
every-day  sort  of  a  fight.  But  by  and  by  our  Buck  saw 
his  opportunity.  The  enemy  exposed  his  left  side,  in  an 
unguarded  moment,  and  before  he  could  recover  himself 
that  deformed  antler  had  dealt  him  a  terrible  thrust.  It 
the  force  of  the  blow  had  been  divided  among  five  tines 

[234] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmer  glass  Buck 
it  would  probably  have  had  but  little  effect,  but  the  single 
straight  spike  was  as  good  as  a  sword  or  a  bayonet,  and 
it  won  the  day.  The  deer  with  the  perfect  antlers  was 
not  only  vanquished,  but  killed ;  and  the  victor  was  off  on 
the  trail  of  the  doe. 

And  so  our  friend  became  the  champion  of  the  Glim- 
merglass,  and  in  all  the  woods  there  was  not  a  buek  that 
could  stand  against  him. 

But  his  brother  deer  were  not  his  only  enemies.  With 
the  opening  of  the  hunting  season  those  farmers  from 
lower  Michigan  came  again,  and  day  after  day  they  beat 
the  woods  in  search  of  game.  This  time,  however,  the 
Buck  did  not  leave,  or  at  least  he  did  not  go  very  far. 
For  the  last  month  he  had  been  fighting  everyone  who 
would  fight  back,  and  perhaps  his  many  easy  victories 
had  made  him  reckless.  At  any  rate  he  was  bolder  than 
usual,  and  all  through  the  season  he  stayed  within  a  few 
miles  of  the  Glimmerglass. 

The  farmers  had  decidedly  poor  luck,  and  after  hunting 
for  two  or  three  weeks  without  a  single  taste  of  venison 
they  began  to  feel  desperate.  Finally,  they  secured  the 
help  of  a  trapper  who  owned  a  big  English  foxhound. 
Hunting  with  dogs  was  against  the  law,  and  at  home  they 

[235] 


Forest  Neighbors 

claimed  to  be  very  law-abiding  citizens,  but  they  had  to 
have  a  deer,  no  matter  what  happened. 

The  morning  after  the  hound's  arrival  he  got  onto  the 
trail  of  a  doe  and  followed  it  for  hours,  until,  as  a  last 
resort,  she  made  for  the  Glimmerglass,  jumped  into  the 
water,  and  started  to  swim  across  to  the  farther  shore. 
The  dog's  work  was  done,  and  he  stood  on  the  bank  and 
watched  her  go.  For  a  few  minutes  she  thought  that  she 
was  out  of  danger,  and  that  the  friendly  Glimmerglass  had 
saved  her ;  but  presently  she  heard  a  sound  of  oars,  and 
turning  half-way  round  she  lifted  her  head  and  shoulders 
out  of  the  water,  and  saw  a  row-boat  and  three  men  bear- 
ing down  upon  her.  A  look  of  horror  came  into  her  face 
as  she  sank  back,  and  her  heart  almost  broke  with  de- 
spair ;  but  she  was  game,  and  she  struck  out  with  all  her 
might.  Her  legs  tore  the  water  frantically,  the  straining 
muscles  stood  out  like  ropes  on  her  sides  and  flanks  and 
shoulders,  and  she  almost  threw  herself  from  the  water. 
But  it  was  no  use,  the  row-boat  was  gaining. 

The  farmers  fired  at  her  again  and  again,  but  they  were 
too  wildly  excited  to  hit  anything  until  finally  the  trapper 
pulled  up  alongside  her  and  threw  a  noose  over  her  head. 
And  then,  while  she  lay  on  her  side  in  the  water,  with  the 

[236] 


The  Making  of  a  Grlimmerglass  Buck 

rope  around  her  neck,  kicking  and  struggling  in  a  blind 
agony  of  despair,  one  of  the  farmers  shot  her  dead  at  a 
range  of  something  less  than  ten  feet.  When  he  went 
home  he  bragged  that  he  was  the  only  one  of  the  party 
who  had  killed  a  deer,  but  he  never  told  just  how  the 
thing  was  done. 

That  is  the  kind  of  fate  that  you  are  very  likely  to 
meet  if  you  are  a  deer.  But  vengeance  came  on  the  mor- 
row, for  that  day  it  was  the  Buck's  turn  to  be  chased  by 
that  horrible  fog-horn  on  four  legs.  Hour  after  hour  he 
heard  the  hound's  dreadful  baying  behind  him  as  he  raced 
through  the  woods,  and  at  last  he,  too,  started  for  the 
water,  just  as  the  doe  had  done.  But  he  never  reached  it, 
or  at  least  not  on  that  trip.  He  was  within  a  few  rods  of 
the  beach  when  his  spread  hoof  caught  on  a  root  and  threw 
him,  and  the  hound  was  so  close  behind  that  they  both 
went  down  in  a  heap.  They  sprang  to  their  feet  at  the 
same  instant,  and  stood  for  a  second  glaring  at  each  other. 
The  dog  had  not  meant  to  fight,  only  to  drive  the  other 
into  the  water,  where  the  hunters  would  take  care  of  him ; 
but  he  was  game,  and  he  made  a  spring  at  the  deer's 
throat.  The  Buck  drew  back  his  forefoot,  with  its  sharp, 
pointed  hoof,  and  met  the  enemy  with  a  thrust  like  that 

[237] 


Forest  Neighbors 

of  a  Roman  soldier's  short-sword ;  and  the  hound  went 
down  with  his  shoulder  broken  and  a  great  gash  in  his 
side.  And  then,  with  a  sudden  twist  and  turn  of  his 
head,  the  Buck  caught  him  on  the  point  of  that  terrible 
spike  antler,  ripped  his  body  open,  and  tossed  him  in 
the  air. 

The  worst  enemy  was  disposed  of.  But  that  wasn't  all. 
The  man  who  killed  the  doe  was  waiting  on  the  beach  and 
had  heard  the  scuffle,  and  now  he  came  creeping  quietly 
through  the  bushes  to  see  what  was  going  on.  The 
Buck  was  still  trampling  the  body  of  the  dog,  and 
noticed  nothing  till  a  rifle  bullet  grazed  his  right  flank, 
inflicting  just  enough  of  a  wound  to  make  him  still  more 
furious.  He  faced  around  and  stood  for  a  moment  star- 
ing at  this  new  enemy  ;  and  then  he  did  something  which 
very  few  wild  deer  have  ever  done.  Probably  he  would 
not  have  done  it  himself  if  he  had  not  been  half  crazy 
with  rage  and  excitement,  and  much  emboldened  by  his 
easy  victory  over  the  hound.  He  put  his  head  down  and 
his  antlers  forward,  and  charged  on  a  man  ! 

The  farmer  was  jerking  frantically  at  the  lever  of  his 
repeating  rifle,  but  a  cartridge  had  stuck  in  the  magazine, 
and  he  couldn't  make  it  work.  The  hound's  fate  had 

[238] 


The  Making  of  a  Glimmerglass  Buck 
shown  him  what  that  spike  antler  could  do  ;  and  when  he 
saw  it  bearing  down  on  him  at  full  tilt  he  dropped  his 
gun  and  ran  for  his  life  to  his  dug-out  canoe.     He  reached 
it  just  in  time.     I  almost  wish  he  hadn't. 

One  more  adventure  the  Buck  had  that  fall.  Provi- 
dence, or  Fate,  or  someone  took  a  hand  in  affairs,  and  rid 
the  Glimmerglass  of  all  hunters,  not  for  that  season  alone, 
but  for  many  years  to  come.  One  night,  down  beside  a 
spring  in  the  cedar  swamp,  the  Buck  found  a  half-decayed 
log  on  which  a  bag  of  salt  had  been  emptied.  He  stayed 
there  for  an  hour  or  two,  alternately  licking  the  salt  and 
drinking  the  cold  water,  and  it  was  as  good  as  an  ice- 
cream soda.  The  next  night  he  returned  for  another  de- 
bauch ;  but  in  the  meantime  two  other  visitors  had  been 
there,  and  both  had  seen  his  tracks  and  knew  that  he 
would  come  again.  As  he  neared  the  spring,  treading 
noiselessly  on  the  soft  moss,  he  heard  two  little  clicks,  and 
stopped  short  to  see  what  they  meant.  Both  were  quick 
and  sharp,  and  both  had  come  at  exactly  the  same  instant; 
yet  they  were  not  quite  alike,  for  one  had  come  from  the 
shutter  of  a  camera,  and  one  from  the  lock  of  a  rifle. 
Across  the  salt-lick  a  photographer  and  a  hunter  were 
facing  each  other  in  the  darkness,  and  each  saw  the  gleam 

[239] 


Forest  Neighbors 

of  the  other's  eyes  and  took  him  for  a  deer.  So  close 
together  were  the  two  clicks  that  neither  man  heard  the 
sound  of  the  other's  weapon,  and  both  were  ready  to  fire 
— each  in  his  own  way. 

The  Buck  stood  and  watched,  and  suddenly  there  came 
two  bursts  of  flame — one  of  them  so  big  and  bright  that 
it  lit  the  woods  like  sheet-lightning.  Two  triggers  had 
been  touched  at  the  same  instant,  and  each  did  its 
work  well.  The  flash-light  printed  on  the  sensitive 
plate  a  picture  of  a  hunter  in  the  act  of  firing,  and  the 
rifle  sent  a  bullet  straight  through  the  photographer's 
forehead.  The  Buck  saw  it  all  as  in  a  dream — the  white 
flame  of  the  magnesium  powder ;  the  rifle,  belching  out 
its  fire  and  smoke ;  the  camera,  silent  and  harmless,  but 
working  just  as  surely;  the  two  men,  each  straining  his 
eyes  for  a  sight  of  his  game ;  the  water  gleaming  in  the 
fierce  light,  and  the  dark  ranks  of  the  cedars  all  around. 
And  then,  in  the  tenth  of  a  second,  it  was  all  over,  and 
the  Buck  was  bumping  against  trees,  and  stumbling  and 
floundering  over  roots,  in  his  dazed  haste  to  get  away 
from  this  terrifying  mystery.  He  heard  one  horrified 
shout  from  the  hunter,  but  nothing  from  the  photog- 
rapher— and  the  woods  were  silent  again. 

[240] 


The  Making  of  a  Gtimmerglaas  Buck 
That  was  the  end  of  the  hunting  season  at  the  Glim- 
merglass.  With  the  hunter's  trial  for  manslaughter,  we 
and  the  Buck  are  not  concerned ;  and  there  is  nothing 
more  to  tell  except  that  the  next  year  the  owners  of  the 
lands  around  the  lake  gave  warning  that  all  trespassers 
would  be  prosecuted.  They  wanted  no  more  such  trage- 
dies on  their  property. 

And  so  the  Buck  and  his  sweethearts  and  his  rivals 
lived  in  peace,  except  that  the  rivals  still  quarrelled 
among  themselves,  as  Nature  meant  them  to.  The  Buck 
had  reached  his  prime,  but  you  are  not  to  suppose  that 
he  began  to  age  immediately  afterward.  It  was  long  be- 
fore his  eye  was  dimmed  or  his  natural  force  abated  ; 
and  as  the  years  went  by,  with  their  summers  of  lily-pads 
and  tender  young  browse,  and  their  autumns  of  beech- 
nuts and  fighting  and  love-making,  the  broad  cloven 
track  of  his  split  foot  was  often  to  be  found  in  the  hard, 
smooth  sand  of  the  beach.  Perhaps  it  is  there  now.  I 
wish  I  could  go  and  see. 

THE    EKD 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITT,  N.Y. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


9    193* 

fEB     g     ^36 

'  "•' 

",/'->                -           / 

'•             •      rtrr  , 

OCT  9     1964 

F     4   1969 

I 

: 

"        '            •  '         : 

MAR  2  o  lagg 

LD  21-100m-7,'33 

297588 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


